


The North Star

by littleblackfox



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Adventure on the High Seas, Alternate Universe - Pirate, Angst, Because I didn't suffer enough last time, Brief mentions of torture, Brock Rumlow gets stabbed, But also whales and manta rays, F/M, Fluff, Happy Ending, Historical AU, I will quite literally go down with this ship, It's Pirates okay there's going to be blood and guts, M/M, MUAHAHAH, Mutual Pining, Romani Bucky, Sailing Off into the Sunset, Slow Burn, Smut, Swashbuckying, Swordfighting, Terrible Things Happen to Alexander Pierce, and beach sex, swashbuckling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-18
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-16 20:23:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 61,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11836374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleblackfox/pseuds/littleblackfox
Summary: “I heard rumour that William Fly is swinging from a gibbet in Boston harbour. They say the age of piracy is ending,” Steve utters softly, rubbing the tip of his thumb across his lower lip.Sam glances at him. “You got plans to retire, Cap? Find a nice little beach in the Indies and a good supply of rum? Couple of pretty girls in grass skirts to dance for you.”“Sam,” Steve mumbles, covering his face with his hand.“I’m sorry, a couple of pretty boys?” Sam grins wickedly.“Sam!” Steve looks scandalised, which gets him nothing but laughter from his Quartermaster. “You’re fired. Go throw yourself overboard this instant.”





	1. Bohemian Rats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I heard rumour that William Fly is swinging from a gibbet in Boston harbour. They say the age of piracy is ending,” Steve utters softly, rubbing the tip of his thumb across his lower lip.  
> Sam glances at him. “You got plans to retire, Cap? Find a nice little beach in the Indies and a good supply of rum? Couple of pretty girls in grass skirts to dance for you.”  
> “Sam,” Steve mumbles, covering his face with his hand.  
> “I’m sorry, a couple of pretty boys?” Sam grins wickedly.  
> “Sam!” Steve looks scandalised, which gets him nothing but laughter from his Quartermaster. “You’re fired. Go throw yourself overboard this instant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pirate au. Arrr!  
> I have blessed with the most amazing artists for this fic. You guys, they're incredible!
> 
> Thank you to the fabulous Trash Unicorn [Trish](http://frau-argh.tumblr.com) for the amazing banner
> 
> A thousand thank you's to Eidheann for kicking then words into shape, and to Krycek for enthusing about ships with me.  
> Special thanks to the Buttaneers, scurvy dogs, the pair of them 
> 
> If you want to learn more about the Pirates and their ship, check out [olanordosskocheran](https://olanordoskocheran.tumblr.com)
> 
> And you can find me on [Tumblr](http://thelittleblackfox.tumblr.com)

Steve sits back and glares at the heavy oak table in front of him. The map that he had painstakingly painted across it, bright with black-lined ochre and blue, still shiny with layers of lacquer despite the years, seems almost reproachful as he leans in and carefully paints a bold black X over another town with his brush.  
There is a hesitant tap at the door and Steve ignores it, sealing the lid on his pot of paint and wiping the brush off with a rag. He drops them in the desk drawer, slamming it shut with a force that makes the chairs around the table rattle.  
There is a spot of black paint on the cuff of his frock coat, stark against the faded blue. He licks his thumb and rubs at the stain, which only makes it worse.  
The tap at the door is a little more insistent the second time. Downright aggressive the third.  
“Come in, Sam,” Steve sighs.  
The door cracks open and the ship's Quartermaster peers in, his close-cropped hair hidden under a knitted Monmouth cap.  
“Thought I’d find you hiding in here,” Sam pushes the door shut behind him.  
Steve gives a weak smile as Sam adjusts his stiff wool jacket. Whenever they travel any further north than Spain, Sam’s layers of clothing increases, along with his bad temper. Steve is occasionally tempted to set sail for the frozen lands in the far north where the whalefish blow just to see how Sam would react to real cold.  
“I’m not hiding,” Steve mutters, though it’s a lie. They both know it.  
“Not seen you on deck for a few days,” Sam remarks as he circles once around the Great Cabin, taking note of the tangle of blankets on the hard bench under the stern windows.  
“You know, we could always fit you a hammock in here, then I could have your cabin.”  
Sam glances at the doorway that leads to the Captain's quarters.  
Steve snorts and pushes a strand of blond hair out of his eyes, tucking it behind his ear. “You’ve got your own cabin.”  
“Yeah,” Sam grins. “Over the Mess. You know how bad Barton snores? I swear, it’s like sleeping over a sawmill.”  
Steve glances at his friend, Sam gets like a terrier when something bothers him, and there is only so long you can deflect or evade him. A commendable trait in a Quartermaster, but damned inconvenient in a friend. Especially a friend who insists on being right far too often than is decent.  
“Can I help you, Sam?”  
Sam looks out of the stern windows at the rolling sea. “Our jolly Boatswain thinks we have rats. More than usual, at least. Enough to make a noticeable dent in supplies.” Sam taps the heels of his boots on the fitted wooden planks under his feet. “Maybe Bohemian rats eat more than ship rats?”  
Steve ponders for a moment. “Is Thor concerned?”  
Sam shakes his head. “Just keeping the good and conspicuously absent Captain up to date with the day to day running of the ship.”  
“Okay, well tell Luis to stop feeding _el Gato_ so much salt pork, let her earn her keep.”  
“Never gonna happen,” Sam laughs. “He adores that creature.”  
Steve doesn’t comment on how many times he’s seen Sam with the ship's cat curled up on his lap, feeding her bites of fish. Instead he shrugs. “Well, we’ve all got a job to do on the ship.”  
He gives his Quartermaster a sideways glance. “If you’re bored I can give you more duties.”  
Sam makes a derisive noise. “No thank you.” He walks over to the desk, feigning indifference, and looks down at it. “Updating the map, huh? Can’t be many pirate towns left in Europe now.”  
Steve tugs the cord holding his ponytail in place free, brushing his fingers through his long hair before gathering it up and tying it back. He pointedly doesn’t look at the black crosses scattered from London to Spain. “The Treaty of Utrecht certainly hasn’t done us any favours.”  
“Well, you won’t hear me complaining about moving further south,” Sam adjusts the itchy collar of his jacket.  
“I heard rumour that William Fly is swinging from a gibbet in Boston harbour. They say the age of piracy is ending,” Steve utters softly, rubbing the tip of his thumb across his lower lip.  
Sam glances at him. “You got plans to retire, Cap? Find a nice little beach in the Indies and a good supply of rum? Couple of pretty girls in grass skirts to dance for you.”  
“Sam,” Steve mumbles, covering his face with his hand.  
“I’m sorry, a couple of pretty boys?” Sam grins wickedly.  
“Sam!” Steve looks scandalised, which gets him nothing but laughter from his Quartermaster. “You’re fired. Go throw yourself overboard this instant.”  
Sam pulls out one of the chairs tucked under the table and makes himself comfortable.  
“You’re thinking about it.” Sam says with an edge of surprise in his voice.  
“Don’t give me that look, Sam.” Steve sighs. “Maybe it’s for the best? The days of Privateers are ended, and Hydra are growing stronger with each passing year.”  
Steve sits back in his chair, staring sightlessly at the wood-panelled walls of the cabin. “Maybe it is time to retire. Divvy up the shares and go our separate ways.”  
_Before anyone else gets killed._  
Sam plants his elbow on the map, just above the Cape of Good Hope, and rests his chin on his balled fist. “Uh-huh?” he murmurs, unconvinced.  
“Yeah.” Steve purses his lips.  
“I heard that Mad Dog Buchanan burned down a fleet of Hydra ships a few months back,” Sam gives Steve a sly grin. “Torched a ship and steered it right into the fleet. Took a week to burn out. You think he’s planning on retiring?”  
It’s a sly move, Sam knows full well that Steve hoards stories of other pirates, especially the notorious Mad Dog Buchanan. A former Hydra slave, he escaped his masters and made a career for himself as a thorn in Hydra’s side ever since.  
Steve folds his arms across his chest, and under Sam's knowing gaze deflates.  
“You wouldn’t last five minutes, Rogers,” Sam laughs. “You’d steal another goddamned ship and start all over again.”  
Steve huffs, choosing to ignore that remark, and Sam takes a closer look at the map.  
“The Indies ain’t such a bad idea,” Sam taps the cluster of islands just below the centre of the map. “Lot of places a merchant ship could run aground, following some well placed lanterns. Easy pickings.”  
Steve hums thoughtfully. “Well Europe is no place for piracy. It’ll take what? two, maybe three months to reach the Indies. Do we have enough supplies for the voyage?”  
“Yeah, and Luis heard some word about a Spanish silver ship wrecked near Havana. Worth a look?”  
Steve brushes his fingers across the coast of South America. So much ocean, and still it all seems to be getting smaller.  
“We get caught with Spanish gold it’s a short drop and a sudden stop.” He traces along the scattered Caribbean islands. “Plenty of other things there to be had though,” he murmurs absently.  
Sam leans in closer as Steve’s fingers settle on the coast of Hispaniola. “Set a course?”  
“Aye,” Steve nods. “Set a course.”

It’s a full day before Steve ventures out of his rooms and finally sets his boots on the main deck. He climbs up the ladder that leads from the cabins at the rear of the ship up to the aft deck first, where the wheel stands by the mizzenmast at the ship's stern. He winces a little when Luis, the Sailing Master, throws an arm around him and shouts ‘Captain on deck, fellas’ loud enough to wake the Old Man of the Sea.  
Steve pats him on the shoulder. “Thank you, Luis. Fair wind and good weather ahead?”  
“Decent sailing, Cap. Ten knots at last count, making good time.” Luis looks proud. “ _Chalchiuhtlicue_ carries us safely in her skirts. Which is nice an’ all, considering she destroyed the last age of man in a flood an’ turned everyone into fish.”  
Steve’s mouth twists in a crooked smile. He was raised Christian, but has seen enough actions of devout Christian men, and God's failure to smite them, to keep his mind open. Thor firmly believes that there is a wolf in the sky that will one day eat the sun, and finds the notion of a virgin birth laughable. Steve has long given up trying to make sense of it all.  
“Well, that’s a kindness. Be sure to thank her for me,” he tells Luis.  
“That usually means jumping in the sea an’ pretending to be a frog.”  
The corner of Steve’s mouth twitches. “Next time we weigh anchor, go ahead and… be a frog?”  
“Aye, Cap,” Luis cackles, giving him another pat on the back before returning to his duties.  
Steve climbs down the narrow steps to the main deck. He walks past the longboat tucked along the railing at the starboard side, moving unconsciously in time to the rise and fall of the ship as it ploughs through the waves. He looks up at the three tall masts overhead, the sails unfurled and stretched taut in the wind, the heavy rigging like the work of some giant spider.  
He runs his hand along the lower shrouds, thick nets of knotted rope that stretch from the rails to the mast, holding the thick timbers in place, while providing a climbing frame for the crew working the sails.  
Steve shields his eyes from the sun and looks up at the distant shape of Clint perched in the foretop. The Rigger glances down from his platform, ever sharp-eyed, and gives Steve a salute. Steve returns the gesture and continues his slow patrol of the deck, trying to keep his checks of the sails and rigging unobtrusive.  
Sam rings the great bronze bell hanging in front of the foremast; eight loud peals that, a few weeks ago, would spur the crew on deck into action. Now, the men on deck remain at their posts, and won’t be relieved of their duties until the next ringing of eight bells.  
On any other ship it would be grounds for mutiny, but the crew of The Star  & Shield work on without complaint, and Steve feels an unsettling mix of pride and guilt.  
Mostly guilt.

He takes the time to talk to each crew member on deck before climbing windward up the rigging to the foretop, a platform positioned on the upper end of the mast at the front of ship. Clint, barefoot and dressed in layers of felted wool and leathers against the cold winds, his short hair sun-bleached, gives Steve a silent nod in greeting, and they watch the open seas. Clint has a sharp eye and a strong stomach, preferring to be up in the clouds rather than down on deck, even in the strong winds that make Steve cling to the topmast shrouds and seriously consider taking up life on land.  
“How is the boy?” Steve asks eventually.  
He had been strongly opposed to taking on the new crew member after everything that had gone on before, but the boy had no mother or father, and the crew had taken a liking to him. Captain or not, he will abide by their decision.  
“Good,” Clint responds quickly. “He’s fast on the yardarm and quick with his hands. The boy makes a fine sailor.” Clint frowns. “Wouldn’t trust him with a cutlass, mind. The lad would only end up injuring himself.”  
Steve glances at the bow and arrow Clint has strapped to his back. He often takes advantage of his post to bring down fresh meat for the crew and feathers for his arrows, even if half the time whatever he takes down ends up in the sea rather than the ship. In battle his aim is deadly, raining arrows onto the fighters below. Steve is all too aware of how much of their survival is owed to him.  
“You think he’ll take to the bow?” he asks.  
Clint shakes his head. “Nah, he has a catapult though.”  
“Good with it?”  
Clint takes a long time to answer. “Given time.”  
Steve huffs. “Can you train him? Away from the sails.” The last thing they need is more repair work due to enthusiastic target practice.  
Clint gives him a surprisingly shrewd look. “The boy is happy. Happier than he was in England.”  
Steve shifts onto the edge of the platform, well aware of how it looks like he’s avoiding the conversation. He is.  
He grabs the futtock shroud at the edge of the platform and swings down onto the rigging.  
“He’s too young,” he calls out, climbing quickly down the lower shrouds before Clint can shout out a response.

By the time Steve makes it back to the deck Thor is waiting for him, looking delighted.  
Thor always looks delighted, his hair combed and neatly braided and his broad shoulders clad in his thinnest shirt. A man of the frozen lands North, he never seems to feel the cold.  
“Captain!” Thor calls out, “It’s good to see you.”  
Steve briefly entertains the thought of climbing back up the again, but Clint is up there still, so he sets his jaw and makes the rest of the way down the rigging to join his crewman.  
He lets Thor smack him on the back, managing to stay upright despite the ship choosing that moment to roll with a large wave.  
“And how is our Boatswain? Taking good care of my ship?”  
Thor fixes him with a worried look. “The ship is sound, and her bearing true. My concern is for my Captain. It touches my heart to see the love you bear your men, but they fought bravely, and died in honour.”  
Steve bites his lip and pats the heavy muscle of Thors bicep.  
“Honour or not, I would rather they lived,” he murmurs.  
Thor grips him by the shoulder, meeting his eye. “They feast in the halls of the ancestors. We will see them again.”  
“I hope so,” Steve agrees softly.  
“And what of your bearing, Captain? Which way does the wind blow?”  
Steve gives him a wry smile. “I go where the wind takes me.”  
Thor gives his shoulder the gentlest squeeze before releasing. “May I take a moment of your time, Captain?”  
“Always,” Steve says, fighting the urge to rub his shoulder. “What do you need?”  
Thor leads him across the boards, stopping at the ladder to the lower decks. He gestures for Steve to go down first before following down to the Mess deck, one of the largest areas below deck on the ship, second only to the hold below.  
The Mess runs halfway along the length of the ship, taking up the full width. Six tables positioned along one side of the hull, nailed to the floor like the storage benches either side of them. Hammocks swing gently from the ceiling at the stern end of the deck, away from where the crew eat. There are fewer of them now, the spaces between the ones remaining a painful reminder that Steve can’t bring himself to look at for too long. One of the hammocks has a belt cinching it closed, and Steve can just make out the unruly mop of Peter’s hair. Either side of the boy, the hammocks are occupied with Scott, snoring gently, and Bruce, snoring rather more loudly.  
Nat, the Master Gunner, is sat at one of the tables. Dressed in loose trousers and a felt coat, curled red hair tied back in a bandana, Nat is drinking a measure of small ale and chewing listlessly on pieces of ship's biscuit, dipping each chunk into the mug of ale to soften it before eating. Steve gives a wordless nod of greeting, which is returned.  
On another ship ( _a better ship_ , Steve can’t help think) there would be a cook keeping the crew fed and tending to the Firehearth at the bow end of the Mess deck. As the single source of heat, aside from the fireplace in the Great Cabin, any crew not on deck would be found close to its warmth. Even in the hottest days of summer, it gets cold at sea, especially below decks.  
Thor puts his hands on his hips and frowns at the door to the pantry, tucked away at the stern end of the Mess.  
“Thor?”  
“We have rats, Captain.”  
Steve nods patiently. “I’m well aware.” He glances at the Firehearth, where el Gato is asleep in a half empty woodbasket.  
“Two rats,” Thor continues. “Not overlarge, but tenacious. I have set traps, but not caught them as of yet.”  
Suddenly Steve understands.  
“Ah,” he murmurs gently, keeping his voice level in case he can be heard. “That kind of rat.”

They wait for the sounding of eight bells, sitting at one of the tables after a dinner of salt pork and ship’s biscuit. One by one the day crew ready for bed as the night crew prepare for work. Nat bids them good evening before going up on deck, a yawning Peter trailing after. Bruce mills around for a little while, giving the Captain an update on the ship's condition, before climbing the ladder up to take over navigation duties. His skills are nowhere near that of Luis, and come the morning there will need to be some course correcting. Luis will take it all in his stride, though, and not utter a word of complaint.  
Steve bites his lip. It’s a wonder his crew haven’t mutinied.  
Sam joins them at the table, listening with hardened eyes as Thor sketches out the plan. The others get whispered instructions, one by one. Go about your routine, feign sleep, but stay alert.  
Thor moves slowly through the Mess, turning down the oil lamps one by one, until the only light in the room is the muted glow from the dying embers in the Firehearth.  
Thor slips over to the pantry door, hiding himself in the deep shadow, Steve and Sam taking position at the ladders at the bow and stern ends of the Mess deck, stowing their lanterns somewhere safe.  
In the darkness, silent and still, they wait.

Steve hunkers down under the sloping ladder to the main deck, listening to the creak of timber and the lapping of waves against the hull.  
And a sound that does not belong.  
It’s soft. A light tread of boots on a ladder. A whisper of heavy cloth. Two pairs of feet coming up from hold, step by careful step.  
Steve holds his position, even when one of them pushes past him, the ragged hem of their jacket brushing against the sleeve of his coat.  
He waits until they reach the pantry, and there is the faintest creak of hinges as the door is pulled slowly open.  
Thor throws out his arms and grabs one of the cloaked figures. He lets out a roar of triumph, and the Mess is filled with the sound of panicked scuffling.  
Sam manages to bring out his lantern first, dull amber light shining on Thor and the kicking bundle of rags in his arms.  
“Hold your positions, there’s another on the loose!” Thor shouts as Sam takes a step forward.  
The rest of the crew are already tumbling out of their hammocks, turning on the lamps and searching the room.  
“He can’t have gone far,” Sam calls, casting his lamp around.  
The stowaway in Thor’s arms manages a well aimed kick to his balls and squirms out of his grip. Thor snatches at the ragged cloak, catching it by the hem. There is a sharp tearing sound, and the cloth comes apart in his hands. The stowaway makes a run for it, but the ship lurches and they stumble, falling face-first on the deck. Dark hair tinged red spills out from under the hood of their cloak.  
Thor steps forward, grabbing the stowaway by the waist and lifting them up bodily, and getting screamed at in the face for his troubles.  
“A girl,” he gasps.  
“Yes, a girl. Let go of me!” she hisses, her accent thick and odd-sounding. She spits in Thor’s eye for good measure.  
Thor laughs and puts her down on the deck, keeping one hand on her shoulder as the ship rolls against another wave, holding her up as she staggers.  
Steve comes nearer, holding his lantern up and taking a closer look.  
The girl is thin and filthy, dressed in rags. She looks a handful of years older than the boy Peter, though those years have not been kind.  
“You snuck onboard while we were loading supplies?” Steve asks softly.  
The girl nods, holding her chin up, and Steve finds himself liking her spirit.  
“And your companion?” She hisses at him, but he presses on. “Did you run away to sea with your sweetheart?”  
Sam glances around the Mess where Clint and Luis are checking the dark corners. “Can’t be all that serious if he left you to get caught.”  
The girl snarls. “He’s my brother. And you’ll never find him!”  
“Unless he’s a real good swimmer we probably will,” Luis calls out helpfully, making a paddling motion. “Seein’ as we’re in the middle of Atlantic.”  
The girl pales. “What?”  
Clint gives her a concerned look. “We’re headed for the Indies, kid.”  
The girl trembles, and Thor wraps a gentle arm around her waist, holding her steady.  
“Where did you think you were going, girl?”  
The girl shakes her head. “I don’t know, just… away.”  
“But not that far away,” Luis nods in understanding.  
Steve bites back a smile. Luis knows more than any of them about being far from home.  
“What’s your brother's name?” Steve asks gently.  
She hesitates. “Pietro. I’m Wanda.”  
Steve shifts his lantern to his left hand, holding out his right to the girl.  
“Hello, Wanda,” he says as he shakes her hand. “I’m Captain Rogers. Welcome on board the Star & Shield.”

Wanda calls out softly, and a boy of her age peers out from behind the woodstore by the Firehearth, where Clint swears he had already checked.  
He is as pale and ragged as his sister, there is the same defiant tilt to his chin, but his hair is a shock of grey.  
Steve motions for them to sit with him at one of the tables, telling the crew to stand down and return to their beds. The twins sit huddled together on one of the benches, watching wide-eyed as Clint and Thor wish them goodnight, Clint climbing into his hammocks and Thor retreating to his cabin.  
Luis brings them each a mug of ale and a few slices of salt pork. They refuse the meat, despite looking half starved, but take the ale. Steve nods in silent understanding, offering it to Sam instead and fetching them some ship biscuit. He breaks a off a piece and dunks it in his ale before eating it. The twins copy him, chewing silently on the hard biscuit.  
Steve doesn’t utter a word until they have eaten their fill.  
“Where are your family?” he asks first.  
The twins glance at each other, a silent conversation passing back and forth between them before either one speaks out loud.  
“They took us away,” Wanda says hesitantly. “Said we had to be good Christians, and took us away.”  
“They gave us new names, told us to forget the old,” Pietro bites out. “So we ran.”  
“We went home,” Wanda talks over her brother in a rush. “And the house was... “  
“Burned,” Pietro looks horrified. “Burned to the ground.”  
At that the twins fall silent. Steve glances at Sam, who nods, his mouth set in a grim line, and fetches the twins a measure of rum each.  
Pietro knocks his back in a single mouthful, grimacing at the taste. Wanda takes a careful sip before pushing the cup away.  
“We hid on a riverboat, but the captain found us,” Pietro says, giving Steve a wary look. “We jumped into the water, and it carried us away.”  
He takes Wanda’s rum and drinks it, and Steve can feel the unspoken story in the air between them. Endless miles of hunger and cold and fear between then and now.  
Sam drains the last of his ale and gives Steve a rueful smile. “Well we do need able bodied sailors.”  
The boy looks up sharply. “What?”  
Steve takes in the sight of the twins. They are young, yes, but they have nothing left to their names, they’re not leaving a life and family behind to follow a daydream. Even exhausted and half-starved they are fearless.  
A good trait in a pirate.  
He swirls the dregs of his ale around in his mug and smiles to himself. “Have you considered piracy?”  
The twins stutter, shocked, and it takes all of Steve’s resolve not to laugh while they argue with each other in their thick, oddly-accented language.  
“Yes,” Wanda says abruptly, hissing at her brother when he tries to argue.  
He grins at her suddenly. “ _Piráti_ ,” he murmurs, like he can’t quite believe it. 

Steve assigns them a hammock each, helping them hook the lengths of cloth into place along the beams. He lifts Wanda up into her hammock, holding it steady while she gets comfortable, and nodding patiently as she insists that she’ll be fine getting to sleep. Pietro refuses any offers of help, and spends a solid ten minutes trying to climb into his hammock. The rest of the crew snigger and offer comments of varying degrees of helpfulness until Pietro is finally in place, cursing quietly under his breath.  
No doubt there will be an audience for him when he tries to climb out in the morning.  
“Alright, lads,” Steve calls softly. “Get some sleep.”  
He gestures for Sam to follow him, and climbs up the ladder to the main deck. The lanterns hanging from the masts have been lit by the night watch, and cast faint amber light over the coiled ropes and rigging.  
“Have Thor give them the tour in the morning,” Steve says. “Show them the around.”  
Sam nods. “I’ll see if I can chase up some new clothes too. Can’t have them working in those rags.”  
Steve pats him on the shoulder. “Get some rest first. It can wait until morning.”  
Sam pauses and looks up at the sky, the stars obscured by tattered clouds. “You staying up? Planning on skulking around your ship a while?”  
Steve huffs. “Planning on keeping the ship on course, get Bruce back to his old job.”  
Sam gives him a sharp grin. “Good to have you back, Cap.”  
“Good to be back.”  
Steve watches Sam retreat to his cabin, before relieving a grateful Bruce of his duties.  
As the ship’s Carpenter and Surgeon, Bruce excels at keeping them afloat, but is less adept at keeping them going in the right direction.

“My friends,” Thor stomps down the ladder to the Mess and throws his arms open before the twins.  
They shrink back in their seats as he sits down at the table opposite them, pushing aside their half-empty mugs of ale and crumbs of biscuit. The Mess is slowly emptying as the night crew ready for bed while the daytime crew prepare for the day’s work ahead.  
“I have been charged with your care, have either of you sailed before?”  
The twins shake their heads mutely.  
Thor takes their silence in his stride. “Are you good with heights? Do you have strong stomachs?”  
“Pietro threw up the whole first week we were on board,” Wanda says bluntly.  
Pietro looks guilty. “In one of the empty barrels in the hold.” He swallows nervously. “Well. It was empty at the start. Sorry.”  
“Well, we’ll find it later and toss it over the side,” Thor promises. “Just… in future go leeward on the main deck and strive for distance.”  
Pietro lets out a startled giggle.  
Thor gives them both an indulgent smile. “You are well attired, yes?”  
The twins take a look at each other. Nat had provided Wanda with a set of ankle-length trousers and a long woolen smock. Luis and Scott had given Pietro knee-length trousers, a long sleeved shirt and a narrow-brimmed hat between them. Different from their previous attire, but warm and well-suited to the conditions they’ll be working in.  
“Yes?” Wanda offers.  
“Excellent!” Thor claps his hands together. “Come, I’ll show you the ropes.”

Thor leads the way up the ladder, the twins following at his heels. On deck the sky is overcast, but the day is warming up, the main sails stretched taut in the wind.  
“Welcome aboard the Star & Shield,” Thor announces with a sweep of his arms, his voice ringing out like a bell.  
He leads the twins across the wooden boards, watching as they stumble on the boards with every wave. “The main deck curves, as you can see.” He sights along the length of the ship, and the twins can see the slight convex shape of the caulked wooden slats. “You’ll get soaked by rain and sea spray up here, keeps the water from gathering.” As if to prove a point a wave washes over the windward side, spraying them with saltwater.  
“It takes some getting used to,” Thor admits.  
He points the raised half deck that begins at the second mast and takes up the rear of the ship. “Up there is the aft deck, covering the Great Cabin and the officers quarters. There you will find the Infirmary, as well as the cabins of the senior crewmen, myself and Sam, the Quartermaster. If you have any troubles in your time on board, you come to us with them, yes?”  
Thor waits for the twins to nod before continuing.  
“We stand now on the main deck.” He stamps his foot for emphasis. “You are already familiar with the Mess deck and the hold.”  
The twins nod, Wanda walking over to the railings that run around the edge of the deck and peering down at the choppy seas below. The wind whips at her hair, blowing saltwater into her face.  
“She is a fine ship, a Collier Brig. Thirty meters in length from bowsprit to stern. Do either of you know what that means?” Thor asks. When he’s met with two blank stares he sighs and walks to the prow, pointing to the front of the ship where a long spike juts forward over the waves. “That is the bowsprit. Do not try and climb along it, no matter how much money Clint offers you. Over there you will also find the seats of ease.”  
“The what?” Pietro frowns at the wooden shelf positioned just below the bowsprit with two round holes cut into either end.  
“It’s where you go for a shit!” Clint shout down from above them.  
Thor looks up at the foremast and waves. Clint gives a salute in return.  
Pietro goes for a closer look. “What? You just park yourself over the sea and just…”  
Thor laughs and gives Pietro a shove. “Is there another unpleasant surprise waiting for me in one of those barrels below deck?”  
Pietro has enough decency to look embarrassed. Thor claps him on the back, hard enough to make him stumble. “Dispensing with that can be your first task.”

Clint climbs down from his post, hanging one handed from the lower shrouds. “So which of you is coming with me?”  
Pietro pales and takes a half step back. Wanda grins and takes a half step forward.  
“Perhaps we shall tend to those barrels, my lad,” Thor says gently. “Come back to this another time.”  
Pietro gives him a grateful nod, and allows himself to be led below decks, leaving Wanda looking up a Clint expectantly.  
“Okay kid. You ever worked a square-rigged ship?”  
Wanda frowns. “A what?”  
“Alright. From the top, then,” Clint huffs. “The three big things pointing up are the masts. The one at the pointy end of the ship is the foremast. The one at the back the mizzenmast. This one is…?”  
“The… mainmast?” Wanda asks hopefully.  
Clint smiles. “Damn right, kid. The spars across them? Those are the yardarms, three to each mast. Topgallant one at the top, then topsail, then the course sail. Any questions?”  
“Why is the middle sail called the topsail?” Wanda frowns.  
Clint shrugs. “No idea. Take off your boots.”  
“My what?” Wanda looks down at her worn leather boots.  
“Climb ropes in boots, you’re gonna fall. That means taking a swim.” He shifts his position, his bare toes curling around the knotted rope. “Trust me, kid.”  
Wanda huffs and pulls off her boots, dropping them down the ladder to the Mess deck before returning to Clint.  
“The whole ship is covered in a climbing frame, all these ropes get you up to the sails. Always climb into the wind, mind you, climbing leeward…” he looks at her expectantly.  
“Means taking a swim,” she says with a wary smile.  
Clint’s smile grows wider, warmer. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

By eight bells Wanda is scrambling over the ratlines, sure-footed as a cat. Pietro remains on the main deck below, practicing his knots under Thor’s watchful eye, jumping to his feet when Steve comes walking over.  
“Captain!” Thor calls, drowning out Pietro’s quieter “Sir.”  
“Gentlemen,” Steve smiles at the pair. “How are you fairing, Pietro?”  
Pietro holds up his length of rope. “I can’t tell the difference between a bowline and a rolling hitch.”  
Steve leans closer. “Neither can I,” he whispers.  
Pietro huffs, untangling his knots while Clint and Wanda climb down the shrouds to join them.  
“What do you think, gentlemen?” Steve asks his crewmen. “Are they worthy?”  
Clint nods, giving Wanda a gentle shove. “Not bad for a girl,” he says.  
Wanda glares at him, though there is no real malice in it. He pokes his tongue at her in retaliation.  
“The boy has spirit,” Thor chips in. “A worthy addition.”  
Steve tucks his thumbs into the pockets of his frock coat. “Well, shall we add your names to the article?”  
The twins give each other doubtful looks, following Steve and the rest of those on deck down to the Mess.  
The crew from the night shift are already awake, milling around and helping themselves to dinner. Wanda and Pietro hang back while salt pork is sliced up and portioned out, until Luis pulls them to one side.  
“Hey, so you don’t eat pork, right?” he asks, taking a cloth and pulling a pan out of the Firehearth.  
The twins shake their heads.  
“That a religious thing?” Luis asks, fetching a couple of battered tin plates and shaking the contents out between them. A whole baked fish lands on each plate.  
Neither twin answers.  
“I’m guessing that’s a yes, huh?” Luis hands them a plate each. “Don’t sweat it, okay? I got some spare lines, I can teach you how to fish. If you were just being picky, I’d tell you guys to get over it, but if you got Gods to appease,” Luis shrugs. “Well, Gods are tricksy fuckers at the best of times. But ya can’t live on biscuit, you feel me?”  
“Thank you,” Wanda murmurs, clutching her plate like someone might try and take it from her.  
“No problem, _iits’in_ ,” Luis gives her a bright smile. “We look out for each other, yeah?”  
He gives them a couple of pieces of biscuit each and a mug of ale from the barrel, then shoos them off to one of the tables.

Dinner is a raucous affair, filled with jokes and singing. Thor tries to teach Pietro a Norsemen drinking song. Thee boy gives it his best, stumbling over the chorus while the rest of the crew stamp their feet in time to the song.  
Steve slaps his fist on his table and calls the ship to order. They watch in reverent silence as he unrolls a sheet of parchment at his table, weighing down each corner with a mug. He places a bottle of ink and a quill alongside the parchment.  
“Gentlemen, I have here the article of agreement, ready to be signed by the new members of our crew. This is our code of conduct, the only laws we agree to live by.” He looks about the room, his gaze resting on the twins.  
“Every man,” he glances at Wanda, though carefully avoids Nats eye. “And woman, has a vote in the affairs of the ship. Every man and woman has a fair share of food and ale, unless there is a scarcity. There is also a fair share of plunder, to be divvied up by the Quartermaster, so take those complaints to him.”  
“Nice,” Sam snarks, and Steve bites back a laugh.  
“No playing dice or cards for money,” Clint whines and there is a ripple of laughter around the room. “Lights out at Eight o’clock sharp. If you must keep drinking, do it up on the main deck. Try not to go overboard.”  
Another chuckle, and Steve clears his throat. “Keep your weapons clean and ready for service. No smoking tobacco in the hold, anyone found with an open flame anywhere near the powder room will answer to the Master Gunner.” He risks a glance at Nat, who smirks at him. “No deserting your post, in peacetime or in battle.”  
There is a mutter of agreement, and Steve swallows down the lump in his throat.  
“No fighting each other on ship. You got a problem, you take it to shore. You fight until first blood is spilled, but no further.” He runs his finger under the fresh line of ink on the article, and reads out the new law. “Those that uphold the Sabbath may take rest on this day, but no other.”  
The twins reach out to each other, hands clasping under the table.  
“Will you sign?” Steve asks them.  
Wanda stands first, taking unsteady steps to where Steve is waiting.  
“Do you know how to make a mark?” Steve whispers.  
She nods, biting her lip, and signs her name at the bottom of the list, under Peter’s name in neat copperplate. The scratch of nib against parchment jarring in the silence.  
Pietro takes the quill from her, dipping it into the inkwell and signing his name under his sister's.  
The crew waits until he places the quill down again before they start cheering, scrambling to their feet to crowd around the twins.  
More ale is poured, and Steve pulls Sam to one side.  
“Give them an hour, and extra rum,” he murmurs. “They need a reason to celebrate.”  
“Sure thing, Cap,” Sam grins, giving Steve’s arm a pat.  
Steve tucks the inkwell into his pocket, taking up the parchment and pen. He pauses at the ladder to look back at his crew. It settles something deep in his chest, watching them spilling beer and singing.  
The article gets pinned to the wall in the Great Cabin, where Steve can see it. And should it be necessary, quickly destroy it if they get boarded.  
He climbs up onto the deck, the sounds of laughter filtering up from the Mess below. He runs his hands over the worn oak of the ship's wheel, as wide across as his arms can comfortably reach, a brass cap on the center spoke that when pointed skywards means the rudder is aimed straight.  
The skies are clear, the stars overhead bright. It only takes a few seconds to find the North Star.  
Steve breathes in deeply, letting the cold air fill his lungs, and takes the wheel.


	2. The Star & The Shield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a man chained to the wall. He is unconscious, his matted hair hanging limply over his face. His body bears countless scars and more recent wounds, visible through the grime. The slight rise and fall of his bare chest is the only indication that he still lives.  
> There is an iron band around his throat, the length of metal linked to it bolted into the wooden beams of the hull. His wrists are shackled and raised above his head, the iron cutting into hands from taking his weight.  
> On his left shoulder, faded with time, is branded a five-pointed star.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 folks, have it with my apologies (I'll fix it, I swear)
> 
> Cover art by [Brooklyn-bisexual](http://brooklyn-bisexual.tumblr.com)  
> Macuahuitl art by the fabulous [Rohkeutta](http://rohkeutta.tumblr.com)
> 
> Many thanks to Eidheann for beta reading and forcing me to use commas, and to Krycek for sending pictures of ships.  
> Special thanks to the Buttaneers, scallywags and ne'er-do-wells the pair of them
> 
> If you want to learn more about the Pirates and their ship, check out [olanordosskocheran](https://olanordoskocheran.tumblr.com)
> 
> And you can find me on [Tumblr](http://thelittleblackfox.tumblr.com)

The sun is just creeping over the yardarm when Clint sees the ship.  
He whistles for Peter to sound the alarm, being banned from using an arrow to ring the bell since the time when Dugan nearly lost a hand. God rest his soul.  
The boy scrambles down the shrouds, slipping on the wet deck as he scurries to the door that leads into the cabins under the raised aft deck.  
He runs through the corridor, past the Quartermaster’s cabin and the Infirmary, skidding to a halt at the door to the Great Cabin.  
Peter catches his breath, straightening his waistcoat and brushing his fingers through his hair before knocking once on the heavy wooden door.   
There is a thud and a scuffle before he hears the Captain call him in.

Steve wakes face-down on the desk, his cheek sticking slightly to the map painted across the surface. He shifts, carefully levering himself and rubbing at his stubbled cheek, knocking a mug off the edge of the desk. It falls to the floor with a dull thunk, spilling the dregs of last nights ale.  
He bends down and picks it up, rubbing his thumb against the new dent in its side.  
“Come in,” he sighs, placing the mug back on the desk.  
The door cracks open and the boy Peter peers in.  
“Captain?” he calls nervously. “Um. Hello.”  
Steve's journal is open in the center of the desk, his quill still propped in an open inkwell. Steve flips the book closed and pushes it to one side. “Peter. What can I do for you?”  
Peter shifts restlessly from foot to foot. “I got sent down by Clint, Master Barton. I mean Mr Barton. Um.” He waves a hand vaguely to the starboard side of the ship.  
“Come on, kid,” Steve says with tired smile. “Don’t take all day.”  
“Ship,” Peter swings his hands in a wide arc. “Starboard. Um…”  
Peter falls silent, but his hands keep moving. In the months on board, he has yet to see battle, though Steve would deny that he had been avoiding confrontations.  
Sam would probably have a few words to say on the matter.  
“If it’s a merchant ship, we will go aboard.” Steve gives the boy a reassuring nod. “You don’t have to go charging into battle with a cutlass between your teeth.” Peter lets out a nervous giggle. “But you must fight, and you can do that up on the rigging. Clint tells me you’re good with a catapult?”  
“Yeah, I’m pretty good,” Peter mutters with a hint of pride. “Clint, I mean Mr Barton, he’s got me on target practice. I can get a rat from the foretop if the wind is right?”  
“Well I’m sure you can do plenty of damage from up there,” Steve gets to his feet, pushing his chair into place and straightening out the sleeves of his coat. “Just try not to hit any of us, alright?”  
Peter stutters an agreement before Steve sends him back outside, grabbing his hat from the desk and following shortly after.

The sky is overcast, the clouds heavy and threatening rain.   
Steve climbs up the rigging, the wind tugging at his clothes as he finds foothold after foothold, the soles of his boots slipping on the wet rope. He grabs onto the futtock shrouds and hauls himself up onto the foretop where Clint is sat, his feet dangling over the edge.  
“What can you see, Hawkeye?”   
Clint points to a smudge on the horizon, and Steve never ceases to be amazed by the man’s sight.  
Steve takes out his telescope, a heavy device made of brass and polished glass, and extends the cylinder. He peers out in the direction Clint pointed, though it takes him a minute to find the ship, the image fuzzed and indistinct. He adjusts the barrel of the telescope, sliding the fitted tubes back and forth until the image snaps into focus. A two-masted ship, built for speed and stealth.  
“Looks like a Brigantine,” Steve mutters, spying a familiar red and black flag. “Hydra.”  
“A Hydra Brigantine?” Clint mutters, surprised. “Out there alone? Not in a fleet? You don’t see that every day.”  
“No,” Steve snaps his telescope shut. “Whatever they’re up to, they don’t want to be seen.”  
Clint rubs his hands together. “We gonna fuck with their shit?”  
Steve slips the telescope back in his pocket, and feels his blood thrum in his veins.  
“Yes,” he licks his lower lip and tastes salt. “Yes we are.”

Steve climbs down the rigging and stalks across the deck, moving with the rolling of the ship. Luis is at the wheel, singing softly to himself. Steve doesn’t speak more than a handful of words of Mayan, but from the sounds of it, it’s one in the theme of ‘The Spanish are all bastards’. Though most of the songs Luis likes to sing run along the lines of ‘The Spanish are bad and in need of a good kicking’.  
“Luis,” Steve calls. “A change of course.”  
Luis brightens up. “Seriously? There’s a ship? An actual ship that we’re goin’ after? Not just staring at it while it sails on by?” He bounces on the balls of his feet. “C’mon Cap, don’t tease.”  
“There’s a ship,” Steve nods and points to the starboard side. “Quick now, before it gets away.”  
Luis lets out a whoop of delight and tugs on the wheel.   
Steve looks up at Clint, Peter and Wanda moving across the rigging, each climbing up their masts and unfurling the sails, and the ship slowly starts to turn.  
When the ship is in full sail and in pursuit of the Hydra ship he walks over to the ship’s bell, grabbing the length of rope attached to the clapper and shaking it back and forth. The sound brings the whole crew scrambling onto the deck and assembling in front of him.  
It takes ten minutes longer than a good captain would expect, but then Steve has never been a good captain.  
“Gentlemen,” he calls out. “We have sighted a ship and are in pursuit. A Hydra Brigantine.”   
There is a murmur of interest from the crew, and Steve realises with a twinge of guilt how long it’s been since they’ve had the chance for a good fight.   
“Nat, man the cannons, have Pietro assist you,” Steve orders.   
“Aye,” Nat gestures for Pietro to follow and heads below deck.  
“Clint and Peter, you’re up in the rigging,” Steve continues. “Aim for the sails, the smallest hole will tear in a good gust of wind. We want them wounded, not sinking.”  
The information is for Peter more than Clint, who still nods and murmurs in agreement.  
“What about me,” Wanda pushes to the front, brushing off her brother as he tries to pull her back. “I can fight.”  
Steve doesn’t even try to hide his laugh. “You have a weapon? You ever used a sword?”  
The girl doesn’t even falter. “No. Give me one, I’m a fast learner.”  
That gets a laugh from the rest of the crew, warm and proud, and the girl seems to stand taller with it.  
“Luis, can you spare a blade?”  
“For little _iits’in_? Sure thing, Cap.” Luis waves at Wanda. “Come on, little powder keg, let's find you something shiny.”

Wanda follows Luis down the ladder to the Mess and watches as he opens one of the bench seats that doubles as a storage locker. Inside are all of Luis’ possessions. Wanda and Pietro have a chest each of their own, though nothing to fill them with.  
She watches Luis rummage through his clothes and then pull out a long bundle of oilcloth, and reaches over his shoulder to pick up a strange object hiding underneath his spare pair of striped blue trousers.  
“What’s this?” she asks, holding it up to the lantern light.  
It’s a short wooden paddle, the flat sides decorated with stylised images of men fighting surrounded by conch shells. Around the edge are flattened pieces of obsidian, sticking out from the wood like crooked teeth.

“ _Macuahuitl_ ,” Luis says proudly, taking the paddle from her and putting it to one side. “That thing can cut a man in half if you swing it right.”  
He opens up the oilcloth to reveal a couple of flintlock pistols, a bag of shot and powder, and a half dozen swords and knives. He picks out a short, wide bladed cutlass. The pistol he tucks into his belt, the cutlass he offers to Wanda.  
“If we win the day, you’ll have your pick of shiny things that make people dead,” he tells her as she takes the blade, gripping it carefully in one hand. “That one came from a fuckin’ Spaniard, thought he could get the best of me just ‘cause he knocked the pistol outta my hand.” Luis shoves the leather bag of gunpowder and a handful of lead shot in his pockets. “Joke’s on him though, punched him so hard his eyeball popped. Shoulda seen his face!” He frowns for a minute. “Though on second thoughts that ain’t the kind of thing a young lady like yourself should be seeing anyway.”  
Wanda snorts. “Do I get a gun?”  
Luis shakes his head. “Not this time, _iits’in_. They ain’t a thing to rely on. Misfire half the time and shitty aim at any kind of distance. Just keep a hold of that and stab any fucker that comes too close.” He wraps the remaining swords up in the oilcloth and drops it back in the chest before closing the lid. “May not even come to fighting, if things go well.”  
“What, you think they’re going to surrender?” Wanda mutters, taking a few swings with the cutlass.  
Luis grins, propping his Macuahuitl on his shoulder. “Come on, you’re gonna love this.”

“So, you’ve met Nat, right?” Luis asks, leading the way to the aft deck. The brigantine is getting closer, the Hydra flag, a black kraken on a red background, visible without the aid of a spyglass.  
“The Master Gunner, yes? Sh-”  
“ _He_ ,” Luis says firmly, “Is in charge of the carriage guns.”  
“He?” Wanda frowns. “You mean Nat?”  
“Yup,” Luis sounds oddly clipped. “Not asking you to get it. Am telling you to respect it though, you feel?”  
“Alright,” Wanda answers after a moment. “He.”  
Luis gives her a proud grin. “I knew I could count on you, girl!”  
They climb up the ladder to the aft deck, and Luis waves to the area between the second mast and the wheel, where four small cannons are mounted on wheeled carts and secured with lengths of rope. they are arranged in pairs facing out to sea, one on the port side, one starboard.  
“So Nat’s got all the toys here. We got four big iron carriage guns, they’re called that because they’re on those little wood carriages there. The ropes keep ‘em from rolling around everywhere and getting us all sunk.” He gives one of the cannons a friendly pat. “These guys are what your brother is gonna be busy with. Each one fires a four pound shot. A well aimed ball will take out the mast of another ship.”  
Wanda hums appreciatively and Luis walks past the wheel to the back end of the ship. he slaps at a smaller cannon mounted onto a stand against the rail that runs along the aft deck.  
“Now this is what we’re gonna be playing with. This bad boy is a swivel gun.” He grabs a handle jutting out from underneath the device and moves it from side to side. “Point and fire, hell of a lot of fun. You can stick anything in these guys, rocks, lead shot. One time we ran out of ammunition and put cutlery in there.” He chuckles to himself. “Fucking hilarious.”  
Wanda snorts, but runs her hand across the barrel of the gun. “What do I do?”  
“Keep me supplied with powder and shot. We’ll need to work fast and watch our asses. If things go well they'll surrender pretty sharpish.”   
Wanda looks out to the merchant ship. “Let's hope things go well then.”

Steve goes down to his cabin and fetches his pair of pistols from the bottom drawer of his desk. He checks that they are clean and primed before tucking them into his belt. The shot and leather pouch of powder are tucked into his coat pockets. The cutlass feels good in his hand after so long, the weight familiar and proud.  
He straightens his waistcoat and the collar of his coat, running his fingers along the lines of brass buttons down its front before positioning his hat firmly in place. He takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders and rejoins his crew.  
On the main deck there is a strange sense of calm, the crew not busy moving cannonballs or climbing the rigging are warming up or cleaning their weapons. Scott flips his dagger in the air and catches it, passing it from hand to hand, his movements quick and sure. Bruce sits on a barrel tucked in amongst the piles of ropes under the mainmast, sharpening his machete with a whetstone. Sam paces up and down, swinging his twin axes in low arcs, loosening up stiff muscles.  
Steve gives Clint the order to unfurl their flag, a white star in a circle on a black background that warns all who see it who they are.  
The brigantine is fast, but the Star & Shield is faster, coming up alongside, close enough to see the ship's name is emblazoned across the stern. _The Crossbones_.  
“A strange name for a merchant ship,” Thor remarks, hefting his heavy iron warhammer onto his shoulder.   
Steve doesn’t reply, climbing up to the aft deck and watching as the Crossbones draws closer. It’s a delicate art, knowing the moment when to strike. Call it too soon and the cannon fire will fall short, precious seconds lost to reloading. Too late and you find yourself under fire.  
Either side of him Nat and Luis are in position, cannons loaded, their fuses trimmed short and waiting to be lit. The twins glance at each other, practically vibrating with tension.  
Across the water Steve can see a figure on the deck of the brigantine, staring back at them, his arm raised over his head and waiting for the moment to strike.  
Time slows to a crawl, and he lets the calm flood his veins.  
“Fire!”

Nat lights the fuse and moves over to the next cannon. The first cannonball tears into the side of The Crossbones, blasting through the hull and scattering chunks of oak. The second clips the main mast, making the entire ship shudder. The captain of the Crossbones shouts an order and the ship returns fire.  
The railing to the left of Wanda explodes in a shower of splinters. She lets out a scream, crouching down and shielding herself from the blast. Steve runs to her side, grabbing her arm and pulling her away from the edge.  
Nat yells for more shot as another cannonball sails over their heads, just clipping the lowest yardarm before falling into the sea. Pietro helps reload the cannons, and Nat aims for the main mast and fires again, missing the target but knocking down a handful of men on deck.   
Steve calls on Luis to take aim, the smaller swivel guns only useful at a closer range.  
Luis’ first shot takes off the lowest yardarm of the aft mast, and the ropes holding it in position strain and moan until they snap, whipping back and twisting in the air as the arm drops, sail billowing and blinding the men returning fire.   
A return fire punches through one of the topsails over Steve’s head, just missing Peter as he dangles from the shrouds with his catapult. The boy lets out a shriek, firing his stone at the ship and cracking one of the crewmen in the face. A sharp gust of wind turns the ragged hole in the sail into a rip, tearing it in two. Peter plucks another stone out of his pocket and takes aim.  
Luis targets the sails, managing to tear through the course and topsail on the mainmast.  
At Steve’s command Clint fires arrow after arrow into the sails, raining them down on the deck. One by one the sails split and tear, until the Crossbones looks festooned with ribbons, thrashing in the wind.

The ship slows to a halt, the sails ragged and useless, and Steve gives the order to board. He joins in with throwing grappling hooks to the other ship, catching on the rails and rigging. The crew haul on the ropes, bringing the two ships together.  
Across the water the crew of The Crossbones refuse to surrender, hacking at the ropes and hooks, trying to cut themselves free. He can see the ship's captain, a grim faced man dressed in black, storming up and down the deck, screaming orders.  
Nat and Luis are still taking shots, slower and more measured, aiming to clear the decks rather than damage the ship any further as the two vessels are drawn together.  
The Crossbones smacks into the side of the Star & Shield with a heavy thump. Pietro and Wanda run along the deck, tying the ropes securely while the rest of the crew ready their weapons. They stand with pistols aimed and swords drawn. Thor swings his hammer in cheerful little circles as Steve climbs up onto the rail and meets the eye of the other ship’s captain.  
“Captain Rogers of The Star & Shield,” he shouts. “Do you surrender?”  
“Captain Rumlow of The Crossbones,” the man spits into the air between them. “And fuck you.”  
 _Mercenaries_.  
The Crossbones isn’t a merchant ship, it’s crew isn’t traders or explorers. They are Hydra mercenaries. Vicious and brutal, caring nothing for human life or liberty. Half of the men hired by Hydra were former pirates or privateers cast out by their own crew.  
Steve tilts his head to one side and gives Rumlow a terrible smile. “Cut them down.”

The crew of the Star & Shield climb over the railings, Steve leading with his sword raised, and show no mercy.  
Steve slashes left and right, driving through the press of bodies with only one aim in mind; to reach Rumlow and make him surrender.  
One of the mercenaries lets out a roar and comes at Steve with an axe. He manages to dodge, spinning around as the man stumbles, and grabbing him by his collar. He twists the man about, using him as a shield to push through the mass of bodies.   
His ears fill with the sound of fighting, Thor to his right, swinging his hammer in a wide arc, crushing bones and bodies. Sam to his left, his axes moving too fast for the eye to follow, the sleeves of his shirt soaked in blood. Somewhere behind him, Luis is singing, each line punctuated by the heavy, wet sound of his macuahuitl finding its mark. Scott weaves between the fighters, crouching low as his dagger finds its marks, striking deep and withdrawing like a wasp’s sting.  
It feels like hours, but it’s only minutes until Steve drops his human shield and is standing before Rumlow, his breaths laboured, wiping the spray of blood from his face with the back of his hand.  
“Do you surrender?” he asks.  
Rumlow snarls. “Go fuck yourself.”  
He has the decency to look startled when Steve runs him through.

The ship falls silent as Rumlow crumples to the ground, eyes wide and sightless.  
There is a roar of anger and Steve turns to see another of The Crossbones crew bearing down on him, raising his flintlock. Bruce is faster, and a swing of his machete takes the man's head from his shoulders.  
No one makes a sound as it rolls across the sloping deck, finally coming to a rest against the portside railing.  
Steve looks across the deck, adrenaline thrumming through his veins, making his skin prickle, his fingers twitch. He glares at the handful of The Crossbones crew that are still standing, still clinging to their weapons.  
“Anyone else?” Steve asks softly.  
The one closest to him shifts slightly, moving into a fighting stance. The grip on his sword tightens.  
Steve clenches his jaw. Merchants can be reasoned with, even other pirates are open to barter or trade. Mercenaries would kill their own kin for a handful of coin.   
“Do you surrender?” he asks again, lowering his sword.  
It’s a dirty trick, but some men always fall for it.  
“Never!” the man screams, and rushes forward.  
He manages no more than three paces before an arrow lands in his back, dropping to his knees at Steve’s feet.  
“Throw the last of them overboard,” Steve orders, watching as the man tips forward, blood slowly seeping across the back of his shirt.

The surviving mercenaries get the blessing of a sharp blade before being sent to the water, and soon enough the blood draws the attention of sharks. Steve lets the crew scavenge the bodies still on deck, noting Wanda and Pietro as they follow Luis around as he discards dented and rusting cutlasses, determined to find them a suitable weapon.  
Pietro gets a pair of flintlocks and a dirk, Wanda a sabre, Luis muttering grudgingly about Toledo steel as he hands it over.  
“Alright, that’s enough,” Steve announces when the bodies have been thoroughly searched. “Peter, Pietro, get back to the Shield. I want those sails repaired.”  
The boys nod, gathering together their loot to carry back over to the ship.  
“Nat, see what they’ve got in their armory, take all the powder and shot you can carry.” He fixes the Master Gunner with a hard stare. “No carriage guns.”  
“Two carriage guns,” Nat answers quickly.  
Steve huffs and raises a finger. “One.”  
Nat mutters an assent and heads below deck. Steve has no illusions on the matter, by the morning there will be at least two more cannons on the aft deck.  
“The rest of you scour the ship, gather whatever supplies you can find.” He glances up at the ragged Hydra flag flying overhead. “I doubt they’ll have much in the way of cargo, but search the hold.”  
The crew scatter, and it seems like barely a minute has passed before Steve is helping Bruce roll barrels of ale across a gangplank to their ship.  
Scott raids the ship's pantry and manages to find a supply of salted beef that doesn’t smell off, along with more damned ships biscuit, and Thor finds a decent supply of rum that will get shared out between the crew later. They are in high spirits, flushed with success, and will no doubt make a valiant attempt to drink it all by morning. Steve is half-tempted to secure them all on a short rope to the main mast just in case they go a-wandering and end up going for a swim. He’s undermanned as it is, and he can’t afford to lose more to drink and the deep.  
Clint comes scrambling up onto the deck, interrupting Steve’s thoughts.  
“Where’s Bruce?” he asks, panicked.  
In his role of ships Carpenter and Surgeon, there’s only two reasons to call for Bruce’s help.  
“Rolling out the barrels,” Steve whistles at the other ship, catching Bruce’s eye and waving for him to come over. “What is it?”  
Clint shakes his head. “In the hold. Better take a look for yourself.”

Steve picks up one of the lanterns by the ladder and follows Clint down into the belly of the ship, Bruce close behind with his own lamp.   
The smell is the first thing to hit them, wet oak and the sharp scent of brine. Sea water laps around their ankles, oily black in the weak lantern light. At the far end of the hold, past the rotting crates half floating in the murk that knock into their legs as they edge their way along, is the faint glow of a lantern.   
“Luis?” Steve calls out, recognising the shape of him in the weak light.  
“Hey, Cap,” Luis answers, his voice troubled.  
Steve approaches, lifting his lantern up and shining it in the direction Luis is facing.  
There is a man chained to the wall. He is unconscious, his matted hair hanging limply over his face. His body bears countless scars and more recent wounds, visible through the grime. The slight rise and fall of his bare chest is the only indication that he still lives.  
There is an iron band around his throat, the length of metal linked to it bolted into the wooden beams of the hull. His wrists are shackled and raised above his head, the iron cutting into hands from taking his weight.  
On his left shoulder, faded with time, is branded a five-pointed star. It draws Steve’s eye. It feels like a sign.  
Steve has seen these kind of shackles before, in the hold of slave ships. Seen men and women in their hundreds, their thousands, chained together by these abominations.  
“Get him down,” Steve hisses.  
“Wait,” Bruce calls out as Luis reaches for the body. “We don’t know how long he’s been like that.”  
“What does it matter?” Steve snaps.  
There is something about the man, something so completely defeated, that whispers to Steve, to his very soul. To be beaten and broken, but still breathing, still alive.  
“If he has been forced into that position a long time, and it looks to me that he has.” Bruce points to the mottled bruises circling the man's wrists. “Let them drop too suddenly and you’ll do untold damage, tear the nerves and tendons. Have care or he may never regain use of his arms.”  
“Not a problem if he’s dead,” Luis mutters.  
“What do you suggest?” Steve asks.  
Bruce frowns, reaching out to touch the man's arm. Steve fights the urge to bat his hand away, clenching his fists and breathing out slowly through his nose.  
“If I hold his arms up while we remove the irons,” he says. “And lower them slowly, that should go some way to preventing.”  
Before Bruce can make a move Steve steps forward, curling his hands around the unconscious man's wrists, as gently as he can. He’s cold to the touch, and the sensation on his weak pulse beating against the palm of Steve’s hands is a strange blessing, each thump-thump feels like a gift.  
Bruce lets out a soft sound of exasperation, then turns to Luis. “You any good at picking locks?”  
Luis flashes him a grin, teeth white in the dull light. “ _Suku’un_ , you wouldn’t believe the shit I can do.”

Before long, Luis has managed to unfasten the chains around the man’s wrists. Steve stays close to the man’s side, pressed up against him in the hope of providing some warmth.  
Luis moves to the shackles around his feet, kneeling in the filthy waters. Bruce instructs Steve to lower the man's arms a little every few minutes, until they are draped around Steve’s shoulders, and he can safely take the full weight of him.  
There is strength in the man’s arms still, in the muscles of his broad shoulders. He slumps into Steve’s embrace, instinctively leaning into his warmth and pressing his cheek to the wool of Steve’s coat, his thick scruff of dark stubble catching on the frayed wool.  
Luis tosses aside the irons from around the man’s ankles and straightens up, reaching for the brace around his neck. After a minute of fumbling with the bolt, jamming a short length of metal into the barrel and twisting, it finally releases. The man barely moves, held tightly in Steve’s grip.  
“We need to get him back to the ship,” Bruce says. “Can you manage?”  
Steve nods, squatting down and easing the man over his shoulder before straightening up. “Lead the way?”  
“I’ll cover the rear,” Luis pipes up. “Make sure you don’t crack the poor bastards head open on a beam or something.”  
Steve huffs, shifting the weight on his shoulder. “Yes, thank you Luis,” he says, knowing that he means well.

They edge their way back across the hold, Luis keeping one hand on the back of the man's head as they climb the ladder. They cross the deck, stepping carefully over the bodies, except for Luis, who pauses to give one the occasional kick.  
“Seriously man, what the fuck was wrong with you?” There is a dull thump of a leather shoe connecting with a prone mercenary. “Doing shit like that to a guy.”  
Steve crosses over to The Star and Shield, the oak beams that make up the deck are no different from the ones that make up The Crossbones, but still the sound of them under his boots feels like coming home.  
Bruce leads them down to the Surgery, tucked away under the aft deck a few doors down from the Captain’s quarters.  
The room is clean and sparsely furnished. A table and chair against one wall and a high-sided cot against the other, the raised sides keeping the sleeper from tumbling out of bed when the ship rolls with the waves.  
Bruce fetches his medical kit, a small wooden cabinet. The door opens to reveal shelves filled with small bottles of oils and tinctures, and drawers full of sharp blades, scissors and curved hooks.  
“On the cot,” Bruce says absently, searching through his supplies.  
Steve carefully lays the man down on the cot, tucking his arms in from the sides. He brushes his fingers along the star on the man's shoulder. “Will he live?” he asks, his voice hushed.  
“I am a _Chirurgien Dentiste_ , Captain. But if he doesn’t, it won’t be for lack of trying,” Bruce answers plainly.  
Steve nods, chastened. “Yes, of course.”  
Bruce lifts the lid of his cabinet, revealing an inset filled with jars of salves. There is a list of medicines in fading copperplate on a sheet of parchment pasted inside the lid. He mutters to himself, picking out jars and reading the labels.  
“What can I do?” Steve asks, his fingertips still tracing along the man's skin, feeling the smooth lines of scars at his shoulder.  
“Fetch brandy,” Bruce picks out a tincture and shakes the bottle. “And hot broth. He’ll need his strength.”

Steve fetches a bottle of brandy from his cabin, and returns to Bruce. It is harder than he expected to leave again. The man is a stranger, without name or history, but Steve has to force himself to walk away.  
He sets Luis to making broth before returning to the deck, his skin prickling, his heart unsettled.  
The sun is hanging low in the sky, and the crew are still picking over the remnants of the ship. Given time they would probably start prising up favoured oak beams and brass fittings. Peter has already taken some of the undamaged sails and rigging.  
Steve rings the ship's bell, calling the crew home. One by one they return to the ship, carrying the last of their loot.   
There are two more carriage guns on the aft deck.  
Steve gives the order, and the grappling hooks are pulled up, and the ropes binding the two ships together unfastened. They push the plundered brigantine away with pikes and boathooks, and when they are clear Steve looks up to the sails and gives the order.  
Peter and Wanda scramble across the yardarms, releasing the repaired sails and tugging on the rigging while the canvas billows and swells in the wind.  
Clint watches over them, crouched in position on the maintop, bow in hand. At Steve’s signal he lights the end of his arrow, waiting as the twist of lamp oil soaked cloth catches light. He notches the arrow to his bow and draws back, taking aim and letting it fly.  
It punches through a tattered sail and strikes the deck, and the fire slowly spreads.

By the time the sun sinks down to the horizon, they are far from The Crossbones, bearing west. The distant ship flares up, orange and red, and the masts finally give way, crashing into the sea.  
The sea swallows up what is left, the fire flaring brightly before it is finally extinguished.  
Steve hands over the wheel to Luis, who watches over the drunken carousing of the crew on deck with a fond eye, wishing Steve a goodnight before joining in with the singing.  
He should go to his cabin and sleep, but Steve climbs down the aft deck ladder and turns away from his cabin, walking the short length of the corridor to the surgery.  
Bruce is still awake, despite the brandy on his breath. Steve doesn’t begrudge him a share of the liquor. The man on the cot is sleeping, the rise and fall of his breast even and deep.  
“What can I do?” Steve asks softly.  
There is a bucket of water, scalded on the Firehearth, at Bruce’s feet. He wrings out a boiled washcloth and hands it over. It’s warm in Steve’s hands, giving off traces of steam.  
“Clean him up?” Bruce asks. “There’s salve for his wounds.” He pulls out a glass stoppered jar from his medicine cabinet.  
“Anything else?”  
Bruce gets to his feet, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s in the lap of the gods,” he sighs, shuffling past Steve to the corridor in search of his own bed.  
Steve looks at the pale, silvery star on the man's shoulder. “It’s a sign,” he murmurs, half to himself. “He will live.”  
Bruce makes a noise of neither agreement nor dissent. “Come find me if there is any change, good or ill. You know where I’ll be.”  
“Thank you,” Steve tells him, getting a distracted wave over the shoulder as Bruce goes off in search of sleep.  
He sits down next to the cot, dipping the cloth into the water, a little too hot to bear comfortably, and wrings it out. Under the man’s ragged clothing, his body is covered in deep gashes and bruises, and Steve considers it a wonder he hasn’t already died of sepsis. Underneath the bruises are scars and whip marks, deep enough to make his hands shake.  
He swipes the cloth across the man's brow, shushing him when he shifts and murmurs. Little by little washes away the blood and the dirt, as though he could strip away the harms done with warm water and a gentle touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> iits’in - sister  
> Chirurgien Dentiste - Surgeon Dentist


	3. With Ev'ry Stitch of Sail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve throws an arm around Bucky’s shoulder, pulling him in. Bucky leans into him, placing his bare feet on the top of Steve’s boots, bringing himself up to equal height.  
> He’s warm, in spite of the wind and the rain, so warm as he burrows into Steve’s embrace. He shoves a hand under Steve’s coat and grips the back of his shirt, pressing his cheek to Steve’s so his mouth is by Steve’s ear. Steve can feel warm breath across his earlobe, sending threads of lightning across his skin.  
> The ship dips down and lurches up, and another wave crashes over the bow, more white foam than water.  
> Steve tightens his hand on the wheel, draws Bucky in closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Bucky sings can be heard performed by The Kings of the South Seas [HERE](https://youtu.be/kkttJwUzBdY)
> 
> A special thank you to the fabulous Trash Unicorn [Trish](http://frau-argh.tumblr.com) for the beautiful art
> 
> Thank you's to Eidheann for gleeful cackling, and to Krycek for enthusiasm.  
> Special thanks to the Buttaneers, troublemakers and terrible enablers, the paiir of them
> 
> If you want to learn more about the Pirates and their ship, check out [olanordosskocheran](https://olanordoskocheran.tumblr.com)  
> And you can find me on [Tumblr](http://thelittleblackfox.tumblr.com)

“Come on, _iits’in_ , keep your chin up. Don’t go looking at your feet, your feet ain’t gonna chop off your head with an axe,” Luis shouts, lunging forward with a cutlass and gently poking Wanda in the gut. “Aww, look at that! You died horribly in battle.”  
Wanda huffs and pushes the blade away with the flat of her hand. The edge is dull, the steel dented, but Luis still handles it carefully around her.  
“Head up, shoulders back, right foot forward,” Luis repeats, taking a step back and waiting for her to get into position.  
Steve watches in amused silence from his post at the wheel. There is still enough daylight left for practice, even after eight bells and a good meal, and Luis is determined to make a warrior out of the girl.  
The crew not on duty are scattered around the deck. Pietro and Peter at the stern with their fishing lines baited with ship's biscuit, their bare feet poked through the rails and dangling over the side. Thor and Nat are watching the training session, while Clint is in the rigging failing to be subtle in his watching Nat.  
Wanda swings her cutlass, hissing in frustration as Luis dodges the blow, holding his weapon across his chest, point tipped downwards. Wanda lunges again, the blow countered by Luis’ downward thrust, catching her blade and pushing it back to her.  
“You’re swinging your arm like you’re chopping wood,” Luis steps back again, waving his cutlass in a wide arc to demonstrate. “Can see it coming from a mile away. You gotta jab from the hip, swing from the wrist, mix it up a little.”  
Wanda catches her breath. “But there won’t be enough power in the strike then.” She thrusts the blade forward experimentally, shaking her head.  
“Yeah, if you’re chopping a guy's head off,” Luis waves at her to get back into position. “But you don’t need much force to cut on a guy coming at you. Keep your blade sharp, and them moving about will do most of the work.”  
Wanda’s response is cut off by Pietro’s whoop of delight as he pulls up a fish. It thrashes on the end of the line, silver scales sparkling, as Pietro tries to grab at it. He finally twists his hook free and smacks the fish's head against the deck, killing it instantly, and dropping it into the bucket of seawater next to him. He whistles to himself, baiting the hook with another crumb of biscuit and throwing it back into the water.  
Soon enough he will call it a day and gut his catch, tipping the bucket of saltwater and entrails into the sea, and taking down his catch to the Mess for salting, a couple kept aside to smoke overnight over the Firehearth.  
His whistled tune gets picked up by Peter, who adds his own flourishes. Thor catches the tune and hums along, and as Wanda attempts another strike he starts to sing, his rich, deep voice drifting across the deck.  
The crew nod along as Thor sings the call part of the song, joining together to sing the return.

_They call me hanging Johnny_   
_Away, boys, away!_   
_They say I hang for money_   
_Hang, boys, hang!_

Steve chuckles as Wanda manages to dart forward and jab her blade forward from the hip in a sharp little punch, and Luis lets out a yelp. He laughs, rubbing his gut where she poked him, and tells her to do it again.  
There is a clattering from below deck, and Bruce climbs up the ladder, far enough to poke his head up onto the deck, but no further.  
“He’s awake,” he says simply before disappearing again.  
Steve bites the inside of his cheek. He secures the wheel in place with two lengths of rope fastened to the deck.  
“Nat,” he calls down to the main deck. “You have the wheel.”  
Nat murmurs in understanding and climbs up to the aft deck, taking over the wheel and giving Steve a nod as he goes down the ladder to the cabins below.

Steve follows Bruce down to the cabins, pausing in the doorway of the Surgery. The man is awake and trying to sit up, fighting Bruce’s attempts to make him lie down, and muttering in an odd, lilting language. His voice is a low rasp, his accent close enough to the fishermen of Whitby for Steve to take notice.  
His chestnut hair that Steve had cut the tangles out of with his pocketknife while he slept, had trimmed the straggly ends as neatly as he could while the ship listed and rolled, falls across the man's face as he struggles. His eyes are pale blue, glassy and unfocused. The days growth of stubble on his chin darkened with sweat.  
“ _Ródel mandi_ ,” he gasps, his voice harsh with panic. “ _Mangel mandi_.”  
“Shh,” Bruce presses down on the man's shoulder. “Calm down.”  
“What happened?” Steve grips the worn oak of the doorframe to keep from reaching out.  
“He’s delirious,” Bruce shakes his head. “He was calm when he first awoke but-”  
Steve finds himself in the cramped room before he’s even made the decision to come closer. He crouches down beside the cot, tilting his head until he can meet the man's eyes.  
“It’s alright,” he says softly. “You’re safe.”  
The man lurches forward, reaching out to Steve and grabbing his wrist. “ _Wo mullered lên_ ,” he hisses.  
Steve makes no attempt to pull away, keeping his gaze firmly on the man, who stares at him with clouded eyes. He falls silent as Steve shushes him, but doesn’t let go of his wrist.  
“Do you know what he’s saying?” Steve asks Bruce, keeping his gaze fixed on the man.  
Bruce shakes his head. “It’s not French. It’s not nonsense, he’s repeating words. Is it Spanish?”  
“I don’t think so,” Steve places a hand on the man's chest, and the touch seems to calm him a little. There is something in his speech that sounds familiar, like he’s heard it somewhere before. “Go fetch Pietro, he should be in the Mess. Maybe he knows.”  
Bruce slips through the doorway without another word, and the man pulls his hand away from Steve and slumps back against the oak panelled wall, looking defeated. His breath comes harshly, his chest rising and falling rapidly.  
“I’m Captain Rogers,” Steve says slowly, touching the front of his coat with the flat of his hand.  
The man looks at him blankly, and Steve, who may be far from the land of his birth but is still a New Yorker at heart, tries again but louder and slower.  
“Steve,” he pats his chest. “Steve.”  
“ _Stevóske_ ,” the man says slowly.  
“Close enough,” Steve says, and taps the man squarely in the centre of his chest. “You?”

Bruce returns before the man can offer a response, pushing Pietro through the doorway in front of him. There is barely enough room for two people standing in the cabin, let alone three, so Bruce stays in the narrow corridor.  
“Pietro, can you talk to him?” Steve asks.  
Pietro holds up his hand, his fingers crusted with white salt, and waves until he gets the man’s attention. “ _Ahoj cizinče_?” Pietro says, looking doubtful.  
The man frowns at him and turns back to Steve. He leans forward, looking up at Steve through strands of dark hair. “ _Wo tut mudaréla_ ,” he whispers, pleading.  
“Try something else,” Steve orders Pietro, not breaking away from the man's febrile stare.  
Pietro glowers but clears his throat and tries again. “i>Mah Shlomcha?”  
The man trembles, his fingers rattling against the side of the cot.  
“Don’t you know any other foreign tongues?” Steve mutters, casting a quick glance to Pietro before returning to the man, who wraps his arms across himself and shudders hard enough to make his teeth clatter.  
“Only English,” Pietro sniffs.  
“Okay, that’s quite enough,” Bruce waves Pietro away. “Go back to your fish, lad.”  
“Aye, sir,” Pietro mumbles, giving the man in the cot a last, curious glance before returning to work.  
Bruce pats Pietro on the shoulder and thanks him again, before turning back to his patient.  
“Whatever effected him seems to be passing,” Bruce notes as the man’s breathing settles. He still keeps his hand clasped tightly around Steve’s wrists, even as Steve presses the palm of his hand to the man’s forehead, hot and damp.  
“He’s feverish,” Steve says, pressing the back of his fingers to the man's cheek. He leans into the gentle touch, his eyelids flickering with exhaustion. “What must have happened to him?”  
“There are rope burns on his wrists and ankles,” Bruce opens up his medicine cabinet and selects a bottle of tincture. “That along with the wounds on his back, I would say he’s been keelhauled.”  
Steve moves his hand to the man’s jaw. He has heard of the practice, a barbaric form of punishment where a man is bound to a rope strung under the hull of a ship and thrown overboard. The unfortunate soul then dragged across the keel as he is pulled from one side of the ship to the other. Most drown or die from their wounds.  
“I dare say being kept below deck knee deep in seawater kept the wounds from infecting.” Bruce measures out an amount of tincture with a glass dropper and squeezes it into a cup on the table beside the cabinet.  
“If the men of the Crossbones did this then they died too quickly,” Steve snarls.  
“You’ll get no argument from me there.” Bruce adds a splash of brandy and hands it to Steve. “Give him this.”  
Steve gives the contents a wary sniff. “What is it?”  
“It will help him sleep,” Bruce closes up the cabinet with a decisive snap.  
Steve opens his mouth to argue, but the man shivers again, and squeezes Steve’s wrist a little more tightly. His looks exhausted, and hurt. It’s enough to make Steve swallow all the questions he has.  
Bruce replaces the tincture and closes the case. “Are you here for the time being?”  
It has been no secret amongst the crew that when Steve has not been on deck he has been in the cabin, watching over the stranger between fitful naps at his bedside. Steve nods, pursing his mouth. Bruce doesn’t offer a lecture, just pats him on the shoulder. “Get some rest, the pair of you.”

Steve waits until Bruce has gone before he turns back to the man, pulling the chair from under the nearby table and sitting down.  
“Here,” he holds out the cup.  
The man hesitates, as if he knows what the contents offer, before letting go of Steve’s wrist and taking the cup. Steve’s skin feels cold and too-tight at the loss of contact, and he rests his hands in his lap, linking his fingers together to keep from fidgetuing.  
The man’s hands shake as he lifts it to his lips, the rim tapping erratically against his teeth as he tries to drink. Steve reaches up to help, and the man's expression hardens briefly. Steve lets out a soft, startled chuckle.  
“Alright, you can manage by yourself. Sorry.”  
The man pointedly tips the cup back and swallows the contents down, wiping his mouth with the ball of his thumb and suppressing a grimace. He holds out the cup and Steve pushes it onto the table. When he turns back the man is sitting up, his back against the hull. His eyes are dull, though fine tremors still shudder along his arms, across his shoulders.  
“I know you can’t understand me,” Steve says. “But as long as you’re on my ship no harm will come to you.”  
“ _Wo tut mudaréla_ ,” the man says quietly. He no longer sounds desperate, only resigned.  
“You need to rest,” Steve knows that the tincture works quickly, especially on an empty stomach. He tugs at the blankets wrapped around the man's legs, and he gets the message, shifting down until he is lying down on the thin mattress. Steve tucks the blanket around him, watching as he blinks slowly, ghosts of shivers making his fingers twitch.  
“ _Stevóske_ ,” he breathes.  
“Shh, go to sleep,” Steve says, turning the lantern down to its lowest setting. He doubts the man understands his words, but hope’s the dimmed lamp and the medicine will do their work regardless.  
In the gloom he can make out the man slapping his right hand over his heart.  
“Bucky,” he whispers, the hand closing into a fist.  
“That’s your name?” Steve asks quietly.  
He nods and taps his knuckles over his heart. “Bucky.”

The man, _Bucky_ , falls into a fitful sleep, and Steve dozes beside him, woken up occasionally by low moans as Bucky stirs in his sleep, plagued by fever-dreams. Each time Steve touches the palm of his hand to the man’s brow and shushes him until he calms. El Gato comes padding into the room in the night, and curls up at Bucky’s feet, purring loudly. Steve scratches her behind the ears until she falls asleep.  
Bruce returns at eight bells and frowns at the sight of Steve slumped in the chair, but doesn’t comment.  
Steve gets slowly to his feet, shaking out the cramps and aches from sleeping awkwardly, and glances over at Bucky. It’s a relief to see him at rest, the furrows that were in his brow and the creases around his mouth smoothed away in sleep.  
There is a beauty in the scars on his body, in the fine laughter lines around his eyes, and Steve tries not to dwell on such thoughts.  
“You’ll let me know when he wakes?” he asks Bruce instead.  
“I will,” Bruce nods.  
“He needs clothes,” Steve mutters absently. “I should have some that will fit.”  
Bruce waits patiently while Steve goes to his own cabin and searches through the wooden chest at the foot of his bed, finding an old pair of long trousers dyed black and a wine-coloured shirt. He returns with the clothes, leaving them neatly folded on the chair.  
“He’ll be fine, Captain,” Bruce says quietly, with more understanding in his tone than Steve is comfortable with. “I’ll send for you if there’s any trouble.”  
Steve knows when he’s being dismissed, but takes a moment to twitch the blankets into position over Bucky’s scarred shoulder.  
“Captain,” Bruce says with a smile.  
“Yes,” Steve huffs. “I’m going.”  
He leaves the cabin, refusing to look back and get a knowing smile from Bruce, and climbs down to the Mess to join the crew for breakfast.

The weather takes a turn mid-morning. The blue skies cloud over and rain starts to fall, a relentless drizzle that refuses to blow itself out. Steve tugs the brim of his cocked hat down, shielding his face from the rain. With luck it will blow itself out in a day or two, though he has known these storms to last for weeks.  
Rain slows you down, makes it harder to navigate. It also makes the crew ill-tempered and prone to squabbling, cramped together below deck or hunched up at their posts, chilled to the bone.  
Clint is up on the foretop, looking out for trouble. Peter and the twins are moving about on the deck, attending to their various tasks, Wanda still sulking about being ordered down from the rigging in the rain. She is a fast learner and a hard worker, but it takes experienced hands to work wet rope, and Clint would never forgive himself if she took a tumble. It’s far more difficult to find a man overboard in the rain, damned impossible in a storm, and Steve will not risk it.  
There is movement on the main deck, and Steve spies someone climbing up from the Mess, their movements slow and stiff. He recognises their red shirt and his treacherous heart knocks painfully against his ribs. Bruce had mentioned giving his patient instructions to take gentle exercise once the fever had broken and he was well enough to walk. It hadn’t occurred to Steve that he might do it on deck.  
Without thinking why, he slips behind the wheel, putting it between the newcomer and himself, and watches from under the brim of his hat as Bucky paces slowly across the deck. Slowly his movement become less stiff, more fluid, his bare feet firm on the slick wooden deck.  
Before long he is walking with an easy, rolling stride, moving with the pitch and roll of the ship, leaning into the lifts and drops with the ease of one who has long been at sea. It took Wanda weeks to learn how to walk with the waves, and Pietro still hasn’t mastered it.  
The sight prickles Steve’s curiosity. Was he a sailor? A merchant? And what had he done to end up in chains in the hold of a mercenary ship?  
Steve moves to the far side of the wheel, peering around the mast as Bucky walks slowly around the main deck, pausing to test the lower shrouds, gripping each rope in one hand and tugging, testing their strength. He runs his hands over the knotwork, fingers tracing along the half hitches and square knots, and Steve has the oddest sensation of being under inspection.  
Bucky seems to be satisfied with the work and looks up at the rigging, indifferent to the falling rain. Clint salutes him, and Bucky returns the gesture, touching two fingers to his brow and pulling his hand away sharply in greeting.  
Then Clint, the traitorous dog, points directly at where Steve is lurking.  
_Damnation_  
Bucky follows the direction Clint is pointing and nods, slowly making his way across the deck, checking the mast and rigging that he passes like a dutiful Boatswain.

Steve tries to think of a suitable punishment for Clint as Bucky comes his way, but in all honesty the Rigger already has the most dangerous job on the ship. He couldn’t even send Clint down into the hold to check the barrels for spoiled foodstuffs, he’d only end up checking by scraping off the worst of the green and eating it.  
Bucky pauses at the bottom of the steps up to the aft deck, as if the length of the ship, a mere thirty meters, was too much for him. Steve wouldn’t doubt that it was, but he straightens up and takes the steps slowly, one at a time, until he is up on the aft deck. He is soaked from the rain, his shirt plastered to his skin, but it doesn’t seem to trouble him.  
“You’re awake,” Steve says, and silently berates himself for coming out with a greeting so mundane.  
“I am,” Bucky says in a halting, heavily accented English.  
Steve raises a hand and gestures to him. “And you speak…” he falters, remembering Pietro’s derisive look.  
“I do,” Bucky presses his lips together in a thin line, his gaze shifting from the wheel to the deck, to anywhere but Steve.  
“I…” Bucky huffs, sounding irritated. “I… _zhavo_ … um… burden? No.” He taps his bare foot impatiently on the deck. “Fuck.”  
Steve lets out a sudden, high pitched giggle, slapping his hand over his mouth. Bucky’s mouth quirks up as Steve shakes his head.  
“I’m sorry,” Steve mumbles, his hand still clamped over his mouth. “Sorry.”  
“ _Dinlo_ ,” Bucky mutters, though he doesn’t sound angry.  
Steve scrubs his hand over his mouth. “Bucky, right? We’ve met, though I don’t know if you remember.”  
Bucky looks up at the rain pattering against the sails. “Stevóske.”  
The name makes warmth flood through Steve’s bones like a taste of good brandy.  
“She’s a _kushti_ …” Bucky frowns, holding his hand up flat and making a bobbing motion. “ _Bero_.”  
“Ship?” Steve offers.  
Bucky nods. “Bero,” he says again.  
“She is,” Steve agrees proudly. “A Collier Brig. Small, fast, easy to handle with a limited crew. Flat bottomed for navigating shallow waters and beach landings. Runs at eight to nine knots in good wind.”  
Bucky taps his foot on the deck, bowing his head as if wrestling with himself. Steve waits, biting his lip to keep from running his mouth any further.  
“Used to _rokker_ ,” Bucky taps his mouth. “Speak? A lot. But... stopped.”  
He rubs his hand absently over his shoulder, where the star could be made out under the clinging wet fabric. Steve has enough people on his crew running from their past, and knows when to hold his tongue.

Bucky looks up at the stays holding the mizzenmast in place, reaching out to check the tension in the rope.  
“Whitby Cat,” he says, rubbing his thumb over the wet fibres.  
“That’s right,” Steve smiles. “You know Whitby?”  
Bucky nods. “ _Kinsha_ ,” he sketches a circle in the air between them.  
“You travelled a lot?” Steve tries to keep up. “Where are you from?”  
Bucky shrugs. “ _Jin_? Just… always moving?”  
“But you are from England?” Steve asks. He presses a hand to his chest. “I’m from New York.”  
Bucky grins, displaying even white teeth that Bruce would be proud of. “I know.”  
Steve snorts and shakes his head, sending a spray of water from the brim of his hat.  
“You know your way around a ship,” it’s not a question, but it takes Bucky a moment to catch on.  
“Ava, I worked… many bero.” Bucky frowns. “ _Wo mullered lên_.”  
Steve recognises the phrase from the night Bucky first awoke, but doesn’t ask, even though the questions are crowding in the back of his throat. He is so busy not asking that one that a different one slips out.  
“You want a job?”  
Bucky looks sharply at him, and Steve realises that he want to know the answer. He straightens his spine, meeting Bucky’s stare.  
Bucky shakes his head. “ _Bi bok_ ,” he mutters, chewing the inside of his cheek. “ _Na_.”  
Steve doesn’t need to ask for the translation of that word. The disappointment is sharp, like fishbones stuck in his throat, jagged and painful to swallow around. He grips the topmost spoke of the wheel and looks out at the rain-lashed sea, and the conversation is suddenly over. Bucky turns away, walking over to the stern, arms wrapped around himself. Steve doesn’t watch as he finishes his exploration of the ship, facing forward, though there is nothing to see but heavy grey clouds and endless rain.  
The man is a stranger, they had barely shared a handful of words. So why did the thought of him leaving make Steve’s throat tighten, make his heart clench. He swallows, forcing those little fishbones to flex and loosen, at least enough so that he can speak.  
Bucky pauses at his side on his way back to the ladder. Steve already recognises the way he flattens his mouth in a thin line, trying to find the right words.  
“We are bound for the Indies,” Steve says a little too loud, a little too sharply. “Should be there in less than a fortnight, with good weather.”  
Bucky reaches up to the striker, the short triangular sail at the rear of the ship crossways to the sail. He gives it far more attention than it needs, checking the fastenings to the mizzenmast.  
“If you’re looking to make a fresh start,” Steve remembers Sam wandering around the Great Cabin, talking about retiring to a tropical island. “There are worse places.”  
Bucky shrugs, letting the comment pass. “She’s _kushti_. Cost much _lovva_?” He rubs his fingers and thumbs together. _Money_.  
Steve clears his throat awkwardly. “Yes. Well. You see the thing is…”  
Bucky grins, and if Steve had thought him beautiful before, it is nothing compared to when he smiles. His mouth stretches wide, his nose scrunches up, the fine lines around his eyes form deep creases.  
“You _stole_ her.” He looks delighted.  
Steve shifts from foot to foot, his boots clicking on the deck. “I was a Captain. Took lumber and spices to England, brought back beer and shit no one really needed.” He rubs his thumb over the curved spoke of the wheel. “A Captain took sick last minute while I was kicking my heels in Lagos. Seemed like an easy enough job, take a shipment to Charleston, bring back iron and liquor.”  
He glances at Bucky warily. “I decided not to.”  
Bucky checks another knot. “Do alright from the cargo?”  
“They weren’t cargo.”  
Steve runs his thumbnail along the rim of the wheel. “They weren’t cargo,” he repeats, more softly this time. He glances at Bucky, who isn’t smiling anymore, he’s looking at Steve with something like approval.  
“So you a pirate, _ava_?”  
Steve tips his head. “Steve Rogers, Captain of The Star  & Shield, scourge of the high seas.”  
Bucky chuckles. “Dinlo,” he murmurs.  
“I meant what I said about work.” Steve gives Bucky a hopeful look. “Two shares of any plunder, fair shares of food and ale, unless there’s scarcity.”  
“You don’t want me on your bero,” Bucky says, though he sounds almost disappointed, walking over to the ladder that leads down to the cabins.  
Steve stares after him as he climbs down, and is struck with an foolish impulse. “At least think about it?” he calls.  
Bucky pauses, fingers drumming on the top rung of the ladder. “Ava,” he says, barely audible in the rain, and disappears below deck before Steve can say anything further.

The bad weather doesn’t blow itself out, and the rain pours down, soaking the sails and washing over the main deck, it’s curved floor channeling the water down the sides of the ship and into the sea.  
Steve hunches behind the wheel, navigating by compass and intuition. He watches Bucky take his twice daily circuit of the deck, under Bruce’s advisement, slowly building up his strength.  
He checks the rigging as he walks, sometimes alone, sometimes in the company of Thor or Sam. Steve takes in the way he points up to the rigging, communicating with his hands as much as with his voice. At the end of each tour he climbs up the narrow wooden steps to the aft deck, running his hands over the shrouds and stays stretching down from the mizzenmast, before joining Steve at the wheel.  
They don’t so much converse as co-exist, standing a little too close to be appropriate, each comfortable in the other's presence. Bucky occasionally offers suggestions and remarks, each measured and thoughtful, the words chosen carefully. His hands dance in the air between them, rain dripping from his fingers, as he describes trading routes and great ships that sail them, as he tells tales of monstrous sea serpents and cannibal kings.  
Steve drinks up the stories like wine, offering the few tales he has of his own to share. He hoards Bucky’s laughter like gold coins, a clattering handful in his breast pocket.  
Every visit ends the same, an offer and a refusal. As the days draw on it takes Bucky longer and longer to say no. Steve waits, silent, hopeful, for the day when Bucky’s mouth doesn’t pull into a firm line, when he doesn’t shake his head, the heavy strands of his rain-darkened hair sticking to his cheeks.  
One by one, the crew take Steve to one side and ask about the newcomer. They each whisper Bucky’s praises, and vouch for his place on the crew. Steve tires of explaining again and again that he has asked and been refused.  
“Ask better,” Luis says, poking at one of the brass buttons adorning Steve’s coat.  
Bucky walks his route around the ship morning and evening. He sits at the tables at mealtimes, listening to the crews stories and songs and offering up his own in trade, his hands sketching in the air before him, weaving their tales.  
It has been a long time since Steve felt hope. It unfurls like spring leaves, deep in his heart.

The weather worsens, and Steve sends the crew down below, leaving just himself and Clint above deck. He can barely see for the rain and the waves, the wind pulling them high enough to crash over the deck.  
Steve can barely see when Clint climbs down the rigging and rings the bell, not waiting for the other crew below deck to rouse before running across the length of the ship and climbing up to the aft deck where Steve mans the wheel.  
“What news, Hawkeye?” Steve calls out.  
“Oh god, we’re all going to die?” Clint answers blithely. At Steve’s frown he waves an arm out to the leeward side of the ship. “Getting worse. Fast. Could be it only last a few hours, we throw out a sea anchor and strike all the sails, wait it out. Could be it gets worse and we all die horribly.”  
There is the slap of bare feet on the deck as Luis appears, scowling out to sea.  
“Shit’s getting real nasty out there, Cap. Chalchiuhtlicue’s pissed and wants us to get reincarnated as little fishies. We should put our asses to the wind, use it to shove us out of harm's way.”  
Steve shakes his head. “We can’t afford to get blown off course.”  
Wanda and Peter arrive for orders, and Steve has the urge to send them back down below where it’s safe. The urge only increases when Bucky climbs up the ladder onto the deck and joins the gathering.  
“We can’t get ahead of the storm, we’ll have to ride it out.” Steve tips his hat back and looks up at the sails. “Strike the topsail and topgallant-”  
“Course,” Bucky says suddenly, pointing to the largest sail at the lower end of the masts. “Take down the course sails.”  
Steve turns and stares at him, but Bucky doesn’t back down. “Too big, it’ll drag us down. Topgallant’s small, enough to carry us along,” He mimes the ship bobbing on the waves with his hand. “Won’t _chunner_ … won’t push us over.”  
Clint turns to Wanda and Peter. “You two are with me. Get the course sails down. Don’t tie them up, cut the damn things down. Let the wind take them, we don’t have time for screwing around.”  
They snap off a quick ‘aye’ before following Clint down to the mainmast, scrambling up the shrouds and following Clint’s shouted orders.  
“Okay, so you got some sort of plan?” Luis asks. “I’m a big fan of not getting breached and shit, but how the hell do we maintain any kind of course on raggedly little sails?”  
Bucky reaches up to the bottom edge of the striker and gives Steve an expectant look.  
Steve nods, catching onto the idea. “We use the striker for steerage, it’ll keep us into the wind so waves break over the bow rather than hit the side and send us over.”  
Bucky grins at him, bright and beautiful. His heart forget how to beat for a moment before hammering violently in his chest.  
Luis lets out a whoop. “We got ourselves a plan!”  
Steve can’t take his eyes from Bucky's broad grin. “Luis, douse the navigation torches and seal the hatches, then make sure the Riggers get down safely and get yourselves below decks.”  
Luis snaps off a salute. “You’d better fuckin’ believe I will!” he shouts before heading off.

Steve looks up at the rigging, though the storm is getting worse, making it harder to see. The course sail on the mainmast has gone, and Clint is guiding Peter and Wanda in cutting down the sail on the foremast.He turns to Bucky, and the orders to get back down below dies in his mouth as Bucky takes a step closer. Steve can feel the warmth of him, even in the cold rain cascading around them, as Bucky’s arm brushes against his sleeve. Bucky slides his hand down Steve’s hip, and his heart climbs into his throat, staring wide eyed as sly fingers dip into the pocket of his trousers.  
“Bucky?” Steve whispers, barely audible in the drumming of rain and sea spray on the deck.  
Bucky’s grin turns sharp and he pulls back swiftly, leaving Steve disoriented from the loss of that brief, bold contact.  
Bucky waves an object in front of Steve’s nose triumphantly. Steve recognises the stubby curved blade and smooth wooden handle of his sheet knife, swiped from his pocket.  
“Hey!” he yelps.  
“I’ll bring it back,” Bucky says, shoving the handle between his teeth and biting down, making a shiver that has nothing to do with the rain spark down Steve’s spine. He watches, open mouthed, as Bucky climbs up the shrouds and starts cutting down the final course sail right over Steve’s head. He is sure-footed in the rain, moving swiftly across the knotted ropes, and Steve can only stare as Bucky severs the lines and looses the sail, moving nimbly across the ratlines even as the wind pulls at his clothes and the rain blinds him.  
With the other sails down Wanda and Peter take to the safety below decks, battening down the hatch as they go. Clint and Luis report back to Steve before being sent down, leaving only Steve and Bucky above deck.  
The last of the lines on the course snaps, and the spread of canvas is whipped away by the storm, Bucky ducking out of the way of the ropes whipping around and climbing back down.  
The wind howls around him, the ship lurching up as it ploughs into the storm, slicing through a wave that bursts across the deck.  
Steve straps the wheel in place with lengths of rope as Bucky clambers down the shroud. He moves slowly, setting each foot down on the knotted rope before daring to shift his weight. When he reaches the deck he keeps low to the ground, heading to where Steve holds on to the wheel, wedged in amongst the ropes lashing it in place.

Bucky holds out the knife. “Thanks!” he yells over the storm.  
“Get down below,” Steve snaps, grabbing the knife back and trying to disguise fear as anger.  
Bucky doesn’t fall for it. “You staying?”  
Steve grits his teeth and nods.  
“Then I’m staying.”  
“What the-” Steve blurts out, but whatever else he had been inclined to say gets knocked out of him when Bucky shoves himself between the wheel and Steve, the ropes tight around them.  
“Dinlo,” Bucky rasps in his ear. “Someone has to keep you alive.”  
Steve huffs and throws an arm around Bucky’s shoulder, pulling him in. Bucky leans into him, placing his bare feet on the top of Steve’s boots, bringing himself up to equal height.  
He’s warm, in spite of the wind and the rain, so warm as he burrows into Steve’s embrace. He shoves a hand under Steve’s coat and grips the back of his shirt, pressing his cheek to Steve’s so his mouth is by Steve’s ear. Steve can feel warm breath across his earlobe, sending threads of lightning across his skin.  
The ship dips down and lurches up, and another wave crashes over the bow, more white foam than water.  
Steve tightens his hand on the wheel, draws Bucky in closer.  
“Tell me again,” he says. “Tell me about the sea snake.”  
Bucky lets out a startled laugh, but clears his throat. For a moment Steve thinks he’s being given the silent treatment, but then his ear fills with a voice sweet and rich and rough, like the taste of molasses on his tongue.

_This snake was measured miles twice two_   
_But there they surely lied_   
_For I was one of the weary ships crew_   
_By whom the length was tried_   
_One morning from its head we bore_   
_With ev’ry stitch of sail_   
_And going at ten knots an hour_   
_In six months came to his tail_

The storm blows itself out in the hours before dawn, though they are barely conscious enough to notice. Steve slowly comes to, the sunlight warming his damp blond hair.  
Bucky is slumped against the wheel, his cheek pressed to the topmost spoke, his hands still gripping Steve’s shirt.  
“Are we dead?” Bucky mumbles, his eyes firmly closed.  
Steve grimaces, but doesn’t loosen his hold around Bucky’s shoulders. “I think it would hurt less if we were.”  
Bucky lifts his head and smiles. “There’d be a _yag_ and _O beng_ poking at us with a stick.”  
Steve is too tired to figure out his meaning. “Obeng?”  
Bucky straightens up, pulling his hands from Steve’s shirt. It’s a tight squeeze in the ropes, but he holds his fist up between them, index and little finger pointing up.  
“Oh, yeah. Him.” Steve huffs, patting absently at the back of his head. “Where’s my hat?”  
Bucky ruffles Steve’s damp hair. “North where the whalefish blow.”  
Steve bats his hand away and Bucky slips out of the ropes around them. He staggers a little on the deck, reaching out to the mizzenmast to brace himself.  
“Go down below,” Steve says softly. Bucky opens his mouth to argue, but Steve is faster. “Rouse the crew, there's much to be done.”  
Bucky’s lips twist in a lopsided smile. “You still here at eight bells, I’ll knock you out and drag you down below myself.”  
If Steve were less tired, he’d be embarrassed by where his thoughts are sent by that statement. Instead he shrugs. “Don’t strain yourself.”  
Bucky snorts, Unfastening the hatch down to the aft cabins and climbing down the ladder.  
Steve tries to keep his mouth shut. Fails.  
“Bucky?”  
There is a brief pause before Bucky’s head pokes out from the hatch. “Ava?”  
“Sign the article,” the words rush out of Steve’s mouth unbidden. “Please?”  
Bucky sighs heavily, folding his arms on the top rung of the ladder and resting his chin on the back of his hand, looking up at Steve. He stares silently, the seconds creeping into minutes, every one of them chipping away at Steve’s heart.  
Steve shakes his head and turns away. “Never mind. I sh-”  
“Ava,” Bucky says softly, and disappears below deck without another word.  
Steve grips onto the wheel, suddenly unsteady on his feet. Yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whereupon the author teaches you folks Angloromani, and a little bit of Czech
> 
> Ródel mandi - he is looking for me  
> Mangel mandi - he wants me  
> Wo mullered lên - he killed them  
> Ahoj cizinče - hello stranger  
> Wo tut mudaréla - he will kill you  
> Dinlo - idiot  
> kinsha - travelling  
> Jin - who knows


	4. O Lanordósko Cheran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Stevóske,” Bucky says slowly. “I am… not a good man. Do not bring me gifts.”  
> Steve doesn’t withdraw his hand. “Yes, you are,” he insists.  
> Bucky turns away from him and looks out to sea, the wind whipping his hair around his head. With his face turned away, it is suddenly easier for Steve to let the words slip out.  
> “You are my North Star,” he says softly. “When I am lost you lead the way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by [Rohkeutta](http://rohkeutta.tumblr.com)
> 
> The song Bucky sings is 'The Female Drummer', the version I love the most is performed by Mary Ann Haynes. You can get her version of the song, along with other UK Gypsy and Traveller songs [HERE](https://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Female-Drummer/dp/B01NCMYEYW)
> 
> [The Vendetta Knife](https://olanordoskocheran.tumblr.com/post/161018958141/theprinceofprinces-thelittleblackfox)
> 
> If you want to learn more about the Pirates and their ship, check out [olanordoskocheran](https://olanordoskocheran.tumblr.com)  
> And you can find me on [Tumblr](http://thelittleblackfox.tumblr.com)

  
Steve pins the article to the door of the Great Cabin, trailing his fingers down the list of names and lingering over the ones who have gone to wherever fallen pirates go. Steve doubts that it’s hell, whatever the church may say. They were good men, too good for the fires of hell. Maybe Thor is right, and they are in some great feasting hall, drinking and singing the way they did in life.  
He smiles to himself, the idea a comfort. His fingers pause on the still damp ink at the bottom of the list. _Bucky_ , written in neat, curling script.  
The touch leaves a smudge of black ink on his fingertip. He rubs it with his thumb thoughtfully. Few men are an enigma. Most are motivated by greed or revenge, when it all comes down to it. But the new crewman is something of a mystery. Found beaten and branded and in chains, like a slave, but a skilled and competent seaman, with beautiful penmanship. Steve had kept a close eye on Bucky while reading out the article of agreement after dinner, seen how his eyes had scanned the parchment, following each of the laws as they were read out, silently checking for discrepancies between the spoken word and the written.  
Steve didn’t take offence, it showed a sharp and wary mind.  
His thoughts are interrupted by Sam hammering cheerfully on the other side of the door.  
“Hey, Cap? You’re missing out on drinking, get your ass out here!”  
Steve lets out a soft chuckle and pulls open the door, coming face to face with his Quartermaster.  
“Come on,” Sam laughs. “You’re missing out on the celebrations.”  
Steve lets Sam grab him by the shoulder and hustle him back down to the Mess, where the rest of the crew are gathered around the tables, spilling rum and telling stories.  
Bucky looks up at him with bright eyes, both hands clasped around his mug of ale, and shifts along the bench to make room. Steve has never been inclined to be the kind of captain who sits in a separate cabin with the senior officers, preferring to be in the thick of it with the crew, and wedges himself between Bucky and Luis. Bucky leans into him just a little bit, pressing their bodies together from knee to hip, his presence warm and solid.

Steve doesn’t notice the offered mug of ale until Sam clears his throat loudly, suppressing a start and taking it with a muttered thanks. Sam lets out a gentle snort and goes back to his seat further down the Mess with Nat and Thor.  
Clint is slumped across the table opposite Steve, taking up the space of three men. He has his forehead pressed to the worn wood, and is letting out soft little moans of distress.  
Steve picks up the dregs of Clint’s ale and takes a sniff, flinching at the sharp tang of liquor.  
“Who let Clint at the rum? You know he can’t hold his liquor,” Steve pushes the mug to one side. Luis snatches it up and pours the dregs into his own cup, swallowing down the unholy concoction.  
“What m’I gonna do about Nat?” Clint whines as Luis leans over and pats his head.  
“Course of true love an’ all that, _suku’un_. You gotta follow your heart,” Luis says sympathetically.  
Steve avoids commenting by taking a sip of ale. Clint has been harbouring an infatuation for Nat since the Master Gunner first joined the crew. He has yet to make his affections known, partly due to the likelihood that Nat’s response would be to cut off his balls, which would deter most suitors. But Clint favoured the attentions of the fairer sex, and was thrown by his interest in Nat, despite being-  
“Nat is the…” Bucky clicks his fingers, trying to find the word. “ _mush-rakli_?”  
Steve glances at Clint before turning back to Bucky. “Nat is the Master Gunner, he tends to the powder and-”  
“He?” Bucky says sharply, narrowing his eyes.  
Steve nods, keeping one eye on Clint. “When he joined the crew, he said his name was Nat Romanov.”  
Steve speaks a little slower than usual, but doesn’t overemphasise his words.  
“Yeah, Nat’s from the frozen lands far north. Father was a sailor, ain’t that right, Cap? Some fella called Mikhailhov. Wouldn’t catch me up there, man, they got giant bears and shit.” Luis leans forward and says in a hushed, horrified voice. “They say it gets so fucking cold that if you take a piss, it freezes right away, right up the stream and your dick freezes off!”  
Bucky blinks slowly, then sits back in his chair.  
“Settle down now, Luis,” Steve says, giving Bucky a cautious glance.  
“I’ll put on my hat and feathers and I’ll beat the drum again,” Bucky says softly.

That seems to be the end of the matter, as Bucky looks away and takes another drink of his ale.  
“What was that?” Luis perks up. “You got us another song? Shit, suku’un, don’t be all coy with that shit! I’m so desperate to hear something I’m even listening to Thor singing, you feel?”  
“I am a proud and valiant songsmith!” Thor shouts across the tables.  
“All your songs are about whales, man!” Luis shouts back. “We caught a big fish! We tried to catch a big fish but most of us died because the big fish didn’t wanna get caught!”  
Thor starts singing, and Luis waves him away with a few colourful words in his own tongue.  
Thor reaches the end of his song to polite slapping of hands on tables and feet on floorboards, and the murmur of conversation returns. Luis fetches more ale for the table, pushing Bucky’s mug over to him with a hopeful grin.  
“So where you from, Buck? You don’t speak no language like I ever heard, and I been all over.”  
Bucky takes the offered cup, his eyes lowered.  
“I’m Gyptian,” he says after a long, weighted pause.  
Steve manages not to spill his ale, setting the cup down carefully on the table.  
Luis looks bemused. “Ain’t never met a Gyptian before. So where’s Gypt then?”  
Bucky huffs, holding his mug up to his mouth but not taking a sip.  
“Egypt,” Steve says. “They say the Gyptians were former kings of Egypt.”  
“Those guys with the big Chichen Itza things that worshipped cats and shit?”  
Steve nods, but Bucky lets out a derisive snort.  
“Yeah, I’m a lost prince of Egypt,” he mutters into his cup before taking a sip.  
“You don’t look like an Egyptian,” Luis mutters.  
“Luis, that’s enough,” Steve says, and edge of warning to his tone.  
“I’m just asking. You ain’t from Egypt an’ there isn’t a Gypt, where you from?” Luis points a thumb to his chest. “Me, I’m from Xcalak.”  
“Bless you,” Bucky murmurs with a grin.  
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up.” Luis slaps Steve on the shoulder. “Tell him! Tell him about Xcalak! The prettiest girls in the world live there, and the sea is as clear and sweet as a fucking diamond.”  
“It’s very pretty,” Steve agrees.  
“Not from anywhere. Was once,” Bucky says, finally lowering his cup. “Long ago. Just…” He walks two forefingers across the table. “ _Durri_.”  
Bucky licks his lip and pulls his mouth into a pained little smile. There is something so wounded about it that Steve sets his mug down on the table a little too loudly.  
“Alright, that’s enough,” he says sharply. “Finish up.”  
There is a chorus of grumbling around the tables.  
“I said that’s enough,” Steve repeats firmly. “Scott, Peter, get to work.”  
The pair, sat at the middle table with Wanda and Pietro, grumble quietly and finish their beers.  
“Luis, you too drunk to navigate?”  
Luis presses a hand to his chest. “You cut me deep, Cap. My heart damn well weeps.”  
“I’ll take that as a no, then.” Steve turns to the rest of the crew. “The rest of you to your beds. If you want to keep drinking, do it up on deck.”  
He gives Clint a firm nudge, but he seems inclined to stay put, at least until the ship rolls and tips him onto the floor. It wouldn’t be the first time.  
Luis gives Steve a clumsy salute, jams his Monmouth cap on his head and heads up to the aft deck to take the wheel. As Steve finishes the last of his ale the crew ready for bed or fetch more ale to take up top.  
Bucky doesn’t join the handful that go out to drink under the stars, but reaches out to take Steve’s arm as he leaves, squeezing gently. The thanks is unspoken, but heartfelt.  
He moves away before Steve can make a sound, helping Wanda climb into her hammock before taking to his own, pulling el Gato out from the folds of canvas while the cat lets out a disgruntled chirp. Bucky rolls into the hammock, setting the cat on his chest where she curls up and goes back to sleep.  
When everyone is abed Steve walks around the Mess turning down the lanterns. He doesn’t linger by the hammock where Bucky is stretched out, the cat sprawled across his chest, and retires to his cabin for the night.

For once Steve isn’t roused from his bed early by bad dreams or ill news. He dresses and endures his twice-weekly shave, scraping the dark blond fuzz from his chin with the sharp edge of his sheet knife, no easy feat with a basin of cold water and a ship listing gently back and forth. He wipes the last traces of soap from his jaw and saunters through the doorway that leads from his room to the Great Cabin. There is still a little time before eight bells ring and the crew gather together for breakfast.  
He sits down at the desk and rearranges his papers, careful not to jostle the little wooden ship positioned just east of the Indies. He picks up the calipers and compass and puts them on top of the stack, weighing them down, and pulls his journal closer, flicking through the ink-spattered pages to a clean sheet. He dips the nib of his quill into the inkwell and starts to write.  
He has managed half a page when the bell sounds, not the steady tone of measuring time but the short jangle of alarm.  
Steve sets down his pen and stoppers his inkwell before heading up to the deck.

The sky is overcast, and a strong wind is blowing, billowing the repaired sails and stretching them taut. Steve misses his hat, lost in the storm. He gathers up his long hair, combing it with his fingers and twisting it into a loose knot as he strides up to where Luis is at the wheel, peering at a smudge on the horizon.  
Clint scrambles down from the foretop, landing lightly on the boards and jogging up to the aft deck to join them.  
“Ship on the starboard side, looks like one of the Silver Fleet.”  
Luis perks up. “Spaniards?”  
“One of the New Spain fleet?” Steve asks with a doubtful look.  
The Spanish Silver Fleet is a convoy of ships voyaging between Mexico and Spain, ferrying goods between the Spanish Empire and mainland. The crew of The Star & Shield were fearless, but a handful of able bodies and twenty-two… wait… twenty four guns, wouldn’t stand a chance against a whole fleet.  
“How many are there?” he asks, trying to ignore the way Luis is bouncing up and down with excitement.  
“Just the one,” Clint says. “Must’ve gotten blown off course in the storm.”  
Steve hums to himself, weighing up their options. They have speed on their side, are faster and more agile than a solitary merchant ship loaded down with cargo. But they were still short-manned.  
“Luis, sidle up to them,” he says finally. “Keep your distance. We need to make sure they’re alone.” He glances over at Clint. “Keep a watchful eye on the horizon.”  
“Aye,” Clint answers, heading back to the mainmast and climbing up the shrouds to his post.  
Luis looks at him, raising his eyebrows, and Steve pats him on the shoulder. “Chin up, Luis. It could be your lucky day.”

At eight bells the crew gather together for breakfast, the word about the Spanish ship passing quickly between them.  
Bucky slips into the space at Steve’s side and shoves a mug of ale towards him.  
“They’re spoiling for a fight,” he murmurs, low enough for it to be meant for Steve’s ears only.  
Across the table Luis and Scott are talking excitedly about Spanish gold, convincing themselves that they are about to get rich. Steve hasn’t got the heart to tell them that it’s more likely to carry textiles and sugar, and if there was any gold it would be impossible to trade with. Being caught in possession of Spanish gold meant a summary execution. A short drop and a sudden stop for what? Something you couldn’t eat or drink or use keep you warm, and in the end brought you nothing but trouble. Luis had told enough stories about what happened to his people when the Spanish first came to their lands to sour Steve to the notion of gold and all it stood for till the rest of his days.  
Steve takes the ale with a mumbled thanks, breaking off a piece of biscuit and dipping it into the mug.  
“There’s no love lost between some of the crew and the Spanish Main.” He taps the hard biscuit against the edge of his mug. “The others? They get restless.”  
Bucky lets out a soft chuckle, breaking his own biscuit into pieces.  
“You’ll be expected to fight,” Steve says slowly. “Will that be a problem?”  
Bucky grins, sharp and reckless, and it makes something visceral shiver up Steve’s spine.  
“Need a _chori_ ,” he mimes a cutting motion with a piece of biscuit.  
Steve remembers the way Bucky had slipped his fingers into his pocket and stolen his sheet knife. Remembers the sight of him climbing the rigging, hand over hand, the blade between his teeth.  
“Luis?” Steve’s voice comes out roughly, and he clears his throat. “Did you save any swords from the mercenary ship?”  
Luis visibly brightens. “Shit, yeah! Bucko here needs a blade, right?” He scrambles to his feet. “Come on, suku’un, we gotta get you all tooled up!”

Steve watches as Luis drags Bucky over to the far side of the room, slapping Peter on the back and getting him to move from the storage locker he’s sitting on. Luis pulls out his oilcloth wrapped bundle of blades and spreads them out across the floor, cutlasses and daggers and the occasional pistol clatter across the boards. Bucky kneels down beside him, picking up each blade and considering them thoughtfully.  
“I wouldn’t touch the rapier, man. Too long for fighting close up, y’know? That shit’ll get caught up in the rigging and the next thing y’know you got a dagger through your heart. It’s true, I knew this one guy, thought he was Don fucking Quixote! Red cape, big hat with this damned peacock feather in it. First time he boarded a ship, sword all drawn and flappin’ in the wind, though he looked the business, y’know? Then the wind gusted up and took off his stupid fuckin’ hat, wrapped his cape around his face. His rapier got caught up in the stays and he fell face first into the drink. Poor bastard wore so much velvet and brocade he drowned.”  
Bucky nods absently, picking up a cutlass and checking the blade for sharpness.  
“Cutlass is a classic, curved blade for cutting shit up and bowl shaped guard that covers the hand? Good for blocking strikes, and you can smash ‘em in the face if you’re up close and all that.” Luis picks up a short, straight bladed sword and holds it out, the blade flat in the palm of his hand, the handle pointed towards Bucky. “But this is the one for you.”  
Bucky takes the offering, the brass guard a narrow curve of metal from the blade to the pommel, the grip wound with wire.  
“This is a hanger, looks like its Indian, and they know their shit. Near half the length of a rapier, single cutting edge. The best shit for getting up close and personal, you know?”  
Bucky nods, getting to his feet and feeling the weight of the sword. He moves it in a smooth arc through the air, his motions sharp and carefully controlled.  
“Damn, suku’un, you know your way around a blade,” Luis says in admiration.  
Bucky gives a noncommittal hum. “Still need a chori.”  
Luis sits back on his heels. “What, like a little one?”  
Bucky nods, and Luis rummages through his pile, pulling out dirks and daggers. Bucky frowns at each one and shakes his head, holding the palms of his hands apart and slowly pushing them closer together to indicate something smaller. In the end he settles for a dagger, slipping the sheath into the belt of his trousers and murmuring a thank you while Luis packs up the rest, slapping Nat’s hand away when it strays too close.  
“You got enough shit for killing with, Nat,” Luis laughs. “Hands off.”  
Nat snorts and swipes a piece of salt pork from Clint’s plate. He lets out a little yelp, but doesn’t put up a fight.

“What can you see Hawkeye?” Steve calls up to the foretop where Clint is looking out to sea.  
The Spanish ship is in clear view now, it’s colours flying. The rest of the crew mill about impatiently on deck, scanning the horizon in search of other ships.  
“All clear,” Clint shouts down. “They sure do look lonely.”  
Steve tilts his head to one side. “Best go give them some company.”  
Luis lets out a whoop of delight. “Fuckin’ aye, Cap!”  
Steve chuckles and turns to the crew. “Nat, Pietro, to the cannons. Luis and Wanda at the guns. Peter, you’re up in the rigging with Clint. You know what to do.”  
The boy perks up and nods. “Yes! I mean aye. Aye, sir.”  
Steve gives the boy a nod. “The rest of you make ready.”  
There is a scuffle across the deck as each crewman gets to work, fetching their favoured weapons and readying for battle while Nat and Pietro prepare the cannons, Wanda and Luis going back and forth with shot and powder.  
Bucky is at Steve’s side, moving silently on bare feet. “What’s the plan, Stevóske?”  
Steve glances over, and the sight of Bucky with a blade at his hip makes something delicate curl in his throat.  
“We’ll send a warning shot over the bow, and appeal to the captains better nature to give in without a fight.”  
Bucky looks amused. “And if he has no… better nature?”  
“We make him rue the day we spied his ship on the horizon.”  
Clint unfurls the flag, the white star and circle on an inky black background, and Steve orders Nat to send a warning shot.  
The cannon arcs smoothly over the pointed bow of the ship, taking out an unlucky crewman on its way past. The faint shriek is cut off as man and cannonball disappear over the side.  
“Nat!” Steve hisses, but the Master Gunner only snickers and moves to the next cannon, loaded and ready to fire.  
The captain of the other ship, dressed in an outlandish amount of red velvet and gold trim, swears loudly.  
The Star & Shield comes within hailing range of the Spanish ship, and Steve calls out a greeting, only to be met with a flurry of enraged Spanish, the captain flicking his fingers under his chin defiantly.  
“They never surrender,” Steve mutters under his breath. “Why do they never surrender?”  
Bucky draws his sword and gives Steve a heated look, flicking the tip of blade in a neat little arabesque.  
“Luis,” Steve calls out. “Take it from here. See if you can make them see reason.”

Luis lets out a whoop and rushes forward, clambering onto the rail with his macuahuitl held high. He balances barefoot on the narrow beam, one hand clinging to the knotted rope of the lower shrouds and hollers at the Spaniards.  
“Hey _Cabrón_!,” Luis yells. “ _Que te folles un pez_!”  
The Spanish captain shrieks and gestures to his gunner to fire.  
Steve grits his teeth and hisses.“Not helping, Luis.”  
“ _Me cago en tu madre_!” Luis adds cheerfully.  
“Nat!” Steve yells.  
There is a hiss of powder being lit, and a cannonball arcs through the air and punches into the Spanish mainmast, shattering the wooden pole. Pietro lets out a cheer as he runs to reload while Nat moves to the next carriage gun.  
The Spanish return fire, the first strike skimming over the deck. Scott lets out a shriek and dives out of its path, watching as it smashes through the railing on the far side of the ship. A second shot punches into the side of the ship, above the waterline. Nat aims for the Spanish guns and fires, the shot tearing apart the deck under the gunners feet and sending him into the deep.  
Steve shouts up to Clint and Peter, and they both start firing at the ship. Peter sends stone after stone through the Spanish sails, cheering every time a gust of wind causes the sail to split. Clint takes a more careful aim, sending flaming arrows into the sails, the wind making the fire catch and sending clouds of acrid, obscuring smoke down to choke and blind the men below.  
Steve gives the order to board, and under the cover of smoke the crew throw grappling hooks and ropes across to the Spanish ship, bringing the two ships together.  
Before the hulls can meet Steve grabs one of the ropes that have come loose from the rigging. He turns to give the order to follow, but Bucky is already at his side, winding the rope around his wrist and holding on tightly. Bucky gives him a wide smile, joyful and predatory, and launches himself across the divide.

The smoke swirls in dense clouds, hanging low over the Spaniards. Steve charges forward before the air has a chance to clear, hacking his way through the crowd, Bucky a flash of wine red shirt at his side.  
He feels the heavy thump of the ships knocking together, and the roar of his crew boarding the ship.  
The wind changes and the smoke begins to disperse, rising upwards and away, and he sees.  
Bucky in the thick of battle, his hanger in his right hand, his dagger in his left. Like a terrible, beautiful vision. He moves like he’s dancing, spinning on the ball of his foot as he thrusts and parries, cutting men down with brutal grace. A Spaniard lunges at him, only to get smashed in the face with the pommel of his hanger before Bucky turns to slash at another. The newcomer blocks the strike with his own sword, leering at Bucky as he pushes back. Bucky smirks and buries his dagger in the man's side, twisting the blade as he pulls it free.  
Steve sees a Spaniard creeping up behind Bucky, pistol raised, but before he can make a sound Bucky twists around and kicks him in the stomach, sending him over the side of the ship. He doesn’t even pause to make sure the man is dead, swinging his sword in a low arc and looking for his next target.  
Someone thumps into Steve’s back and he turns to see Sam giving him a glare.  
“Focus!” Sam shouts before turning and burying his axe into the shoulder of an approaching Spaniard. The man lets out a scream, and Sam twists the blade free, kicking the body away as he crumbles to the deck.  
Steve raises his cutlass and rejoins the battle with a roar, forcing himself through the press of bodies, always aware of the glimpse of red just behind him, protecting his back as he pushes onward, up to the aft deck where the captain hangs back from the fighting.  
He clatters up the steps, swinging his sword, just behind him Bucky leaps onto a barrel and from there jumps up onto the aft deck, cutting down any man who tries to come after them.  
The captain retreats to the stern of the ship, sending the last of his men to attack. They charge forward, more than Steve could take alone. But he is not alone. Bucky steps forward, his footsteps light on the deck, and takes every last one of them before Steve can move into a defensive stance. He strikes at their weakest points, catching bared throats with the tip of his sword, stabbing through the chest with his dagger, and dragging his blade across bellies, spilling entrails across the deck.  
When the last man drops to his knees, he lowers his sword and steps back, glancing at Steve, something possessive flashing in his eyes before he draws back, returning to guarding Steve’s back.  
“Do you surrender?” Steve asks, his ears filled with the sound of fighting still going on below.  
The captain snarls, stalking forward and pulling out a pistol. Steve dodges to one side, punching out with his blade, and runs him through.  
The captain lets out a last, defiant hiss and slumps back, sliding off the blade and into a velvet heap on the deck.  
Steve turns back to Bucky, who is watching over the last of the fighting below. He stands with his shoulders back, his sword arm out to the side and lowered, blood dripping from his hand and along the blade. The wind stirs his dark hair but he doesn’t brush it away, letting the loose strands catch at the few days of growth on his chin.  
_Oh_ , Steve thinks as his pulse thrums in his ears, staccato-fast, and his heart unfolds in his breast.

Sam climbs up the steps to join them, and for a moment Steve thinks that Bucky isn’t going to let him pasts. Bucky tightens his grip on his sword as Sam approaches, and shifts his bare feet along the deck, his left foot sweeping back into an _en garde_ pose.  
Steve takes a step forward. “What news, Sam?”  
Whatever battle fugue had come upon Bucky passes at the sound of Steve’s voice, and his shoulders soften, the point of his sword lowering.  
Sam’s gaze flicks to Bucky before turning to Steve. “Some injuries sustained but no lives lost. Scott took a knock to the head and Thor got a little bit stabbed.”  
“A little bit?” Steve asks incredulously.  
“He say’s it’s a mere flesh wound. Anyway Bruce doesn’t want Scott wandering about on deck while he’s all disoriented, so he’s taken him back to ship.” Sam looks over at Bucky. “You wanna get that checked out?”  
Bucky follows Sam’s gaze, finally noticing the defensive cuts along the back of Bucky’s hand and arm.  
“It’s nothing,” he mutters.  
Steve reaches out to take Bucky’s hand, gently turning his wrist to examine the wounds. They are shallow but numerous, and the sight of them, the knowledge that they were taken in Steve’s defence, sends a flush of heat across his skin.  
“Go back to the ship, have Bruce clean you up,” Steve says, seeing the way Bucky opens his mouth to argue. “Please?”  
Bucky snaps his mouth shut, and after a moment of looking half-frustrated, half… something, he turns away, heading down to the main deck and picking his way across the bodies. He pauses at the rail, glancing back at Steve and Sam on the aft deck, before returning to the ship.  
Sam’s sharp gaze follows Bucky across the deck, waiting until he’s safely on the other ship before speaking up. Steve tenses up, waiting for the inevitable lecture.  
“Hell of a fighter,” Sam remarks.  
“He is,” Steve agrees. He wants to say more, about how it felt to have someone fighting at his side, keeping him from harm. How Bucky had moved so seamlessly into the weak points in Steve’s defense, filling the empty spaces that he didn’t know we're there. Instead he clasps his hands on the guard of his cutlass and waits for Sam to speak further.  
“Trained?”  
“Looks that way,” Steve agrees, keeping his expression as impassive as he can.  
“Mmm-hmm,” Sam lets the matter drop, quickly changing the subject. “You got orders, Cap?”  
Steve does not let his shoulders sag in relief. “Check the hold, bring over any supplies. Food and goods only, no gold or silver. Have Peter and the twins search for sailcloth and rope. Is Nat already sniffing around the carriage guns?”  
“You know it,” Sam smirks.  
Steve huffs. “Nat can have two, and no more. Shot and powder first.” Sam looks unconvinced, but doesn’t argue. “Take Thor and as many hands as you need, we can’t afford to delay. No gold or silver. I’m serious, I find a single coin I will throw it and whoever has it overboard, you understand?”  
“Aye Captain,” Sam nods and heads down to the main deck, shouting orders.

Steve helps Pietro roll barrels of ale and rum across to the ship, pausing occasionally to brush his hair out of his eyes. They leave the plundered goods stacked up on the deck to move down to the hold later. The Spanish vessel is laden down with spices, sugar and hardwood, and Steve sends for Bruce to pick through the lumber and take what he needs while Peter and Wanda gather up all the ropes and canvas they can carry.  
When the favoured goods have been moved, Steve gives the crew permission to search the ship, and they scatter. On the main deck Luis starts rifling through the dead for weapons.  
“Luis?” Steve calls out.  
“Yeah, Cap?” Luis throws another axe onto his growing pile of weapons. Some he’ll keep, but most will get sold when they reach land.  
“Find me a new hat?”  
Luis gives him a clumsy salute and goes in search of the officers cabins.  
Steve spies Bucky return to the ship, his right hand bandaged, though there is no stiffness in his movements. He doesn’t go looting, and instead helps Thor with moving goods and lumber below deck.  
“Hey, Cap?” Luis shouts up from the cabins below. “Come check this shit out!”  
Steve unfastens the hatch on the aft deck and climbs down the ladder to the cabins below.

He finds Luis in the Captain's quarters. Three rooms, each one twice the size of Steve’s own cabin. The one Luis is in seems to be devoted to clothes. Luis crouches in the eye in a hurricane of silk and brocade, a green velvet jacket in his hands.  
“You see this shit?” he waves the jewel-encrusted cuff under Steve’s nose. “These ain’t even real, they’re fuckin’ _paste_! Cheap bastards!” He throws aside the offending jacket and picks up a frilled silk shirt. “And you seen the state of this? _Hijo de puta_ , there’s like three shirts worth of silk in all this business! A man wears that you’d mistake him for a fuckin’ jellyfish!”  
Steve reaches down into the pile and pulls out a plain-looking jacket and shakes it out. It’s made of sturdy, quilted cotton in blue, the wide front flaps overlapping and fastened down one side with wooden buttons covered in matching fabric.  
A good jacket, one that would keep the wearer warm on cold nights. Would bring out the blue of their eyes.  
Luis makes a triumphant sound and holds up another coat. It’s made of felted wool in deep blue, with a silver trim along the shoulders and cuffs. The front is a simple row of silver buttons.  
“Cap, you would look fan-fucking-tastic in this thing. Feel it, that shit is serious. Silk lined too, oh man, you gotta try it!”  
The coat Steve is wearing is frayed around the edges, so he shrugs it off, setting it to one side, and takes the offering. Luis claps his hands together and Steve pulls on the coat and fastens up the silver buttons.  
“Oh yeah, that is some premium shit right there. The cut of the waist, all those pleats and shit, great for bringing out that whole…” Luis sketches an upside down triangle in the air between them. “Shoulder to waist thing you got going on.”  
“Luis,” Steve says softly.  
“All I’m saying is you wanna catch a fish you gotta throw out your line.”  
“Luis.”  
Luis purses his mouth. “I couldn’t find a hat. Coupla things that looked like liferafts with feathers in ‘em, but nothing I’d let you wear.” He kicks at the pile. “Stupid fuckin’ things, feathers look better on the little birds, you feel me?”  
“You’ll get no argument from me.” Steve holds out the blue jacket. “Can you make sure that Bucky gets this?”  
Luis raises his eyebrows and gives Steve a sly grin. “You don’t want to give it to him yourself?”  
Steve bites his tongue, and gives Luis a glare until he clambers through the piles of clothing and snatches the coat out of Steve’s hand.  
“Fine, but I’m telling him it’s from you,” he huffs. “That you picked it out for him and shit.”  
“Thank you, Luis,” Steve says, which gets him a muttered response in Mayan, no doubt uncharitable.  
He searches through the other rooms, picking up a compass and a bottle of ink. In a desk drawer he finds what he’s looking for, and slips it into his pocket before going through the papers spread across the desk.  
He is rolling up a promising looking map when Sam appears in the doorway.  
“We got company!”

Steve hurries after Sam up to the main deck. He can hear the bell ringing from The Star & Shield, calling the crew home. Pietro and Nat are busy removing the grappling hooks and ropes that bind the two ships together, while Clint, Peter and Wanda make for the sails. Bucky is on the aft deck, manning the bell. When he see’s Steve on board he points to the starboard side of the ship, a smudge on the horizon.  
“Hawkeye,” Steve shouts up to the mainmast where Clint is climbing onto the ratline. “What can you see?”  
“A ship of the line, Cap,” Clint calls down. “Battleship.”  
The bell comes to a sudden stop, and Bucky runs down the main deck to cut away the last of the ropes with his dagger.  
“Is everyone aboard?” Steve asks, looking around and doing a quick tally.  
Sam nods, casting a wary look towards Bucky before turning back to Steve.  
“Set the sails, Hawkeye,” Steve shouts up. “Get us away.”  
Clint signals to the other Riggers and they cut away the ropes binding the sails. The ship lists and tugs and pulls away from the Spanish vessel and her dead crew.  
“Damn it,” Sam mutters as the ship advances, gathering speed.  
“Muster the crew,” Steve says, giving Sam’s arm a squeeze. “Tell them to be ready.”  
Sam nods in silently, and goes to give the orders, such as they are.  
Steve walks across the deck, moving with the ship as she crests the waves, to where Bucky is still standing at the railing, staring out to sea.  
“We can’t outrun it,” Bucky says slowly, watching the ship in the distance.  
There is a tremor in his voice that Steve hasn’t heard since Bucky first came aboard, a chatter to his teeth. His hands grip the railing, his fingers white.  
“There’s every chance they don’t take up the chase,” Steve answers honestly. “They still have the ship and most of it’s cargo.”  
Bucky shakes his head and turns to Steve. His eyes are wide, his mouth drawn tight. He looks afraid.  
“I won’t go back,” Bucky whispers harshly. “Zhavo mandi. I won’t.”  
Steve reaches out and rests his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “It’s not come to that yet.”  
Bucky doesn’t answer, just stares at the distant ship. Steve grips his shoulder tighter, and can feel Bucky shivering through the thin fabric of his shirt.

The Spanish warship does not stop at the wrecked ship, and continues on towards them.  
Bucky lets out a low growl, and pushes himself away from the rail, pacing up and down the deck.  
He is on edge, twitchy and restless, and so unlike the calm, controlled Bucky that Steve has come to know that it is almost frightening. He prowls back and forth like a caged animal, returning again and again to the rail to watch the approaching ship before stalking away again.  
“Gaining on us,” Clint shouts down. There is a stress in his voice, a forced calm.  
Steve leaves Bucky to his pacing. “What can you tell me?”  
Clint hangs over the edge of the foretop looking grim. “Three-decked, could be anything up to a hundred guns.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Outmatched. Sorry, Cap.”  
They can’t outrun it and they can’t fight back. When the ship reaches them they’ll be boarded and dragged back to the mainland for trial and hanging. If they’re very lucky the ship will just pull up alongside them and open fire. To die at sea in battle is a good death, an honourable death, but it’s a poor comfort.  
Steve swears loudly. It catches Bucky’s attention, and he stalks over.  
“ _So si_?” Bucky snaps, pointing at the rolled up parchment still clutched in Steve’s hand.  
Steve follows the gesture rather than the words. “This? It’s a map from the other - hey!”  
Bucky snatches the map, dropping to the floor and rolling it out on the deck. There are still faint charcoal marks and pinpricks across the surface from where the captain had charted the ships progress.  
Steve kneels down beside him, holding down a curling edge of the map.  
“Luis?” he shouts out.  
There is a slap of bare feet on weathered boards, and Luis crouches down on the far side of the map, silently taking in Bucky’s pale features and Steve’s worried frown.  
Bucky presses his finger to a point on the map just east of the captain's last marker, the open stretch of the North Atlantic, the Americas and the Indies curved around the water like a sickle blade.  
“Here, ava?” His voice is clipped, worried.  
Luis studies the map closely before nodding. “Yeah, That’s about right.”  
“How long before they reach us? Can we get to land?” Steve asks.  
Luis shakes his head. “It’s like, seven hundred miles to anywhere. We got…” He straightens up and looks out at the advancing ship. “Maybe a few hours before it’s close enough to start shooting? Not much more.”  
Bucky moves his finger slightly north. “Bermúdez,” he whispers.  
Luis looks closer and sees the scratch of land on the parchment. “Bermuda? That’s like a tiny island, suku’un. No shelter there.”  
Bucky grits his teeth, frustrated at his own limitations, and draws a circle around the island. He looks at Steve desperately, trying to will him into understanding.  
“You want to go around the island?” Luis asks, confused.  
Bucky shakes his head and taps at the island again. Steve looks closer at the map, the thin scratch of land little indication of the sweep of coral reefs just below the surface...  
The realisation of what Bucky is suggesting is like a physical blow. Steve sits back on his heels.  
“You can’t be serious?” he gasps.  
The smile that breaks across Bucky’s face is like the sun rising over the sea.  
“Luis,” Steve says, answering Bucky’s smile with one of his own. “Change of course. Bermuda.”

“You want to tell me what kind of plan you too have cooked up?” Sam grumbles, following Steve and Bucky across the deck.  
Steve glances over to Bucky. His eyes are clearer, his expression determined rather than desperate.  
“There are coral reefs around Bermuda, they’ve been wrecking ships for a century. The Spanish insist on chasing after us? They’ll be torn up on the reefs.”  
“What's stopping us from getting torn up on the reefs?” Sam yells after them.  
“The Star & Shield is a flat bottomed ship, she’s designed for beach landings and running shallow waters,” Steve calls back. “A warship like that? All those guns? All those men? She’ll be low in the water.”  
Sam pauses on the steps and watching as Bucky starts climbing up the lower shrouds. He pulls himself up onto the foretop and starts talking to Clint, one hand clinging to the rigging, the other dancing in the air as he explains the plan.  
“You’re not serious?” Sam glares as above them Clint starts laughing. “We’re gonna crash and die.”  
Steve shakes his head. “We’re not gonna die, we’ll stop before we hit the reef. They won’t, the ship’s at full sail and chasing us, it’ll sail right past and onto the rocks.”  
“What?” Sam follows Steve to the mizzenmast where Wanda is keeping watch.  
“Steve, how the hell do you plan on stopping?” Sam hisses. “It’ll take too long to tie up all the sails and bring us to a standstill, and if you sail straight into the wind the main mast will crack like a twig!”  
“Sam, you worry too much,” Steve grins. “Wanda, come down here.”  
He waits for Wanda to climb down and for Peter to come and join them.  
“Okay, on my signal we’re going to heave to. Clint and the rest of the crew will pull up the mainmast sails. Wanda, you’ll be here at the back of the ship, trim your sails so they’re backed on the wind. Peter, you’ll be working the front, I’ll want your sails set to pull the ship forward.”  
Wanda frowns and Peter raises his hand nervously.  
“We’re not in a classroom, Peter,” Steve says patiently.  
“Yeah. Um. So if the fore sails are pulling forward and the aft sails pulling back…” Peter holds both index fingers and slowly pulls them apart. “Won't the ship, well you know?”  
“The ship won’t break in half and sail away, Peter,” Steve says with a smile.  
“But it will stop,” Wanda says slowly. “The wind pulling the different sails will cancel each other out.”  
“Exactly,” Steve says. “And with most of the sails still down…”  
“We can get away faster,” Sam catches on, and claps Steve on the back.

Steve calls for the rest of the crew, assigning tasks and giving orders. Everyone able to climb the rigging is sent up the main mast, positioning themselves along the yardarms, ready to hoist up the sails.  
Clint watches from the foretop, looking out for the telltale signs of reefs up ahead. Behind them, the Spanish warship draws closer.  
Bucky paces along the aft deck, looking over his shoulder at the Spanish.  
“Getting close,” he mutters as he passes Steve.  
Steve doesn’t answer, just waits for the next time he stalks past and grabs his sleeve, giving it a gentle tug.  
“Whatever happens, we go down fighting,” he says firmly.  
Bucky bites the inside of his cheek. “Not going back.”  
Steve doesn’t ask where he isn’t going back to, that's not the point.  
“I won’t let you,” he says instead.  
Bucky seems to settle at those words, and remains at Steve’s side, waiting for the signal from Clint.  
The advancing ship is close enough to see the men working on the deck when the word finally comes down.  
The crew swing into action, hauling up the sails up under Clint’s orders and tying them fast. On the two other masts Wanda and Pietro move just as swiftly, tugging on the ropes and moving the sheets into position to catch the wind.  
The sails billow and the ship shudders to a halt, sharply enough to make those on deck stumble and the crew in the rigging brace themselves. There is a panicked yelp above as Scott loses his grip, catching hold of the ratline and dangling upside down. Thor shimmies across to him, grabbing him by the back of his jacket and pulling him up again.

The Spanish warship looms over them. Almost twice their length and laden down with cannons, crewmen racing across the deck. It speeds past them on the leeward side, the captain screaming orders as his men scramble along the rigging, pulling at the sails to try and bring the ship around, slow it down, anything.  
The warship is moving too fast, it’s sails stretched in the wind, and drives forward into the reefs with the sound of crunching, groaning wood, the hull tearing open.  
Luis lets out a roar of triumph, and Bucky stumbles down the steps to the main deck, watching as the ship tips over, ropes snapping and flicking up into the air. It teeters for a moment before slowly keeling over into the sea, sails tearing as the masts splinter and slice through the canvas.  
Steve waits, letting him watch as the ship sinks, letting them all see as the sails touch the sea, and are dragged into its depths.  
Bucky clings to the rail like it’s the only thing keeping him standing. There is no triumph in his eyes, no look of vicious pleasure in the death of another crew.  
“Hawkeye,” Steve calls up to the rigging. “Release the sails.”  
Clint whistles to the crew, who start pulling on the ropes holding the sails in place.  
“Luis, change of course. We sail for the Indies,” Steve calls up to the wheel.  
Luis lets out a whoop and pulls on the wheel, gently maneuvering the ship away from the wreck in a wide arc.  
The crew climb down from the rigging, Scott with the help of Thor.  
“Alright, back to work,” Steve shouts, only to be met with loud complaints.  
“Back to work, I say,” he points to the barrels and crates still stacked up on the deck. “I want the rest of the cargo down in the hold, and repairs underway.”  
There is an irritable chorus of agreement, and he lets them all start walking away, fighting the urge to laugh.  
“First one to find the barrel of brandy gets to crack it open,” he adds in a softer voice.  
There is a ragged cheer, and the crew get to work.

When the deck is cleared and the brandy found and opened, Steve goes in search of Bucky.  
He finds him at the stern, leaning over the rail and looking out to sea, turning a three-cornered hat in his hands. he is singing softly to himself, too low for the rest of the crew to notice. A gentle refrain that answers a question Steve had forgotten to ask.

_Oh when my fault it was found out it was on a battlefield  
A surgeon he came trying to heal up my wounds  
He thought I was a drummer boy but I was a maiden all the while  
A maiden all the while, I was a maiden all the while  
I’ll put on my hat and feathers and I’ll beat the drum again_

Steve waits until the song has ended before coming any closer. Bucky already knows he’s there.  
“She ain’t the first,” he says by way of greeting.  
“Won’t be the last either,” Steve agrees. “Not drinking with the others?”  
Bucky shakes his head, waiting for Steve to join him at the rail before holding the hat out.  
“You need a new _stadi_ ,” he murmurs.  
Steve nods, accepting the gift. “I do,” he admits, tugging the hat firmly onto his head. “How does it sit?”  
Bucky gives him a small, fond smile. “Very handsome.”  
Steve preens, just a little bit, before slipping his hand into his pocket and pulling out the gift stolen from the Spanish captain’s quarters.  
“Here,” he holds out his hand.  
Steve’s not sure what a _chori_ is, only that it’s smaller than a dagger, but he hopes what he’s found will suffice. In his hand is a vendetta, a switchblade, the sharp edge pivoting on a bolt into the hollowed-out handle, delicately painted with red roses.  
“It’s Corsican. On the blade it says _Che la mia ferita sia mortale_ , which, according to Luis, means ‘May all your wounds be fatal’.”  
“Chori,” Bucky says, reaching out to stroke a fingertip along the painted roses. he shakes his head. “I can’t.”  
Steve pushes the gift a little closer. “Yes you can,” he says.  
Bucky frowns, shifting away from him. That troubled look has returned, clouding his eyes.  
“Stevóske,” he says slowly. “I am… not a good man. Do not bring me gifts.”  
Steve doesn’t withdraw his hand. “Yes, you are,” he insists.  
Bucky turns away from him and looks out to sea, the wind whipping his hair around his head. With his face turned away, it is suddenly easier for Steve to let the words slip out.  
“You are my North Star,” he says softly. “When I am lost you lead the way.”  
Bucky lowers his head. “You don’t… see.”  
“Yes I do,” Steve reaches out, resting his free hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “There is nothing you could say that would make me feel differently.”  
Bucky doesn’t pull away, not does he lean into the touch. It is a long time before he speaks.  
“I was… _chavvo_ … small… when they came for us. My sisters and my mother and me. Burned down the _vardo_ , tore us apart, packed us onto bero and sent us away, never to see home again.”  
Steve tightens his grip on Bucky’s shoulder. “You were sold into slavery?”  
Bucky nods, a hitch in his breath. “My new master was a _rai_. Big man. He taught me letters, trained me to fight. Took away my old name, and gave me a new one. Took away everything I was. I did… terrible things. For him.” He closes his eyes. “Became a terrible thing. For him.”  
“He gave you that mark on your shoulder?” Steve rubs his thumb along the curve of Bucky’s shoulder, he can feel the shape of the star under the cloth.  
Bucky opens his mouth to speak, then snaps it shut. He nods sharply and swallows, a shiver shaking through his bones, rattling his teeth. “Ran away. _Rodel mandi_ ,” Bucky’s voice rises in panic, and Steve shushes him gently.  
“Whatever happens, we take care of our own,” Steve promises.  
Steve pushes the knife into Bucky’s hands, his other hand moving down Bucky’s shoulder and along his arm, resting on the back of his hand, clasping Bucky’s hand and the knife between his palms. “Take it. Please.”  
Bucky sniffs and pulls out of Steve’s grip. he shoves the knife into his pocket, nodding mutely.

They watch as the sun dips over the horizon, staining the sea and sky gold. Their hands side by side on the rail, their littlest fingers touching.  
Steve has a sharp mind, and it doesn’t take long to put two and two together.  
“He was a Lord?” he asks slowly.  
Bucky nods. “Lord Pierce, Hydra Trading Company.”  
“What happened after you escaped?”  
Bucky’s expression turns grim. “Swore revenge. On him. On all of them. Been making good on that.”  
Steve lets out an odd, strangled noise. “You’re Mad Dog Buchanan!”  
Bucky lets out a startled laugh at the shocked look on Steve’s face, clinging to the rail to keep from tipping over.  
“Dear God,” Steve exclaims at Bucky’s laughter. “You are!”  
“Buchanan was my family name.” Bucky wipes at his eyes. “Mad Dog, I hate that name,” he gasps as another fit of laughter hits him.  
“You single-handedly destroyed an entire fleet of Hydra warships!” Steve gasps “I read about it. You were the Kingston town terror.”  
Bucky laughs again, low and sweet. “One ship. Three ships. Not fleet.”  
“You ran a slave revolt in Sierra Leone. They burned the town to the ground.”  
“I didn’t! I just… helped,” Bucky insists.  
Steve shakes his head. “I read about it.”  
Bucky slaps his chest. “I was _there_ ,” he laughs.  
Steve chuckles. “Okay, so tell me everything. Every last detail, leave nothing out.”  
Bucky turns away from the ocean and leans against the rail. “I need a drink.”  
“We have drink! We have good brandy and rum, and a crew who are going to be so mad at you for holding out on them so long.” Steve steps away from the railing. “Come on, we’ll have a drink, and you can tell us all about the adventures of the fearless pirate Buchanan.”  
Bucky rubs the back of his hands over his eyes, trying not to laugh as Steve beckons him to join them. He will say yes. In another moment, Steve will ask and he will say yes.  
Bucky looks out to sea and points to the darkening sky, to the first stars coming out.  
“ _O lanordósko cheran_ ,” he says, pointing to the horizon.  
Steve follows the line of his finger to the brightest star in the sky. “The North Star? That’s your name for it?”  
Bucky nods, and finally steps away from the rail, waiting for Steve to ask him again.  
Steve looks out, and sees the light of a distant sun. And there on the deck, his eyes crinkling with silent laughter, his North Star.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mush-rakli - the woman who looks like a man  
> Durri - Journey  
> zhavo mandi - I’m sorry  
> so si - what is


	5. The Jewel of Wakanda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve can feel Bucky’s breath against his cheek. He smells of salt and rum and coarse linen.  
> “I am,” Steve agrees. “And my… my heart is set.”  
> Bucky looks down at their joined hands. His fingers tighten almost imperceptibly.  
> “And you?” Steve asks, feeling a tremor in Bucky’s fingers. “Do you care for me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Braces Self*

Steve sits back in his chair and stares at his desk. The painted map seems to stare back at him, the litter of papers stacked over Russia, the stolen Spanish map over South America, weighted down at opposite corners with a compass and a set of calipers.  
Sam paces along the back wall of the Great Cabin, looking out the stern windows at the rise and fall of the sea.  
Steve can feel the weight of Sam's gaze behind him as he comes to a stop, folding his arms across his chest. “Port Royal?” Sam offers.  
“Cleaned up its act,” Steve sighs. “They have a gallows point. They say Calico Jack still hangs from the gibbet there.”  
Sam looks repulsed. “Can’t be much left hanging after, what? fifteen years? Twenty?”  
Steve doesn’t answer.  
“Roatan?” Sam tries.  
“In the hands of the English.”  
Sam swears under his breath. “There’s gotta be somewhere we can shore up. We’ve done pretty well of late, got some decent goods to trade.” Sam pauses to suck in a breath. “Can’t just roll around the Atlantic forever, Steve. Gotta set foot on land sometime.”  
Steve clenches his jaw. Sam has a good point, and is only speaking on behalf of the rest of the crew. But still, he’s not ready to take that risk. He pushes the wooden model of the Star & Shield across the desk. They’re in a good location for raiding, plenty of merchant ships passing through the waters, trading between the Americas and Europe.  
A lot of warships too. The British and Spanish keeping a close eye on their gold and spices from the New World, Hydra with their own interests and expanding territories. All of them on the lookout for pirates.  
At least on the water they’re relatively safe.  
Relatively.  
Steve opens his mouth to say as much, when there is a knock at the door.  
Before he has the chance to respond, the door cracks open, and Bucky peers in. He at least waits to get invited before actually coming into the cabin, unlike Sam.  
“Morning,” Bucky says, pushing the door shut behind him. “I… um.”  
Bucky looks slightly awkward, his lips pulled tight as he searches for the right words. It doesn’t take long for Steve to guess what’s happening. “You heard us talking?”  
Bucky nods to the open windows, and gives him an apologetic smile.  
Steve answers with a smile of his own. “You got something in mind?”  
Bucky’s smile turns sharp. “Ava.”

Steve beckons Bucky closer, pushing out the chair next to him. Sam watches in silent curiosity, resting his hip against the varnished edge of the desk as Bucky sits down, pushing the papers and maps over to Canada.  
“My master…” Bucky stops suddenly, grits his teeth. “Lord Pierce is director of Hydra trade here,” he sketches a triangle between the Jamaica, New York and Bristol on the map, sweeping his hand back and forth across the Atlantic.  
“The Triangular Trade Route?” Steve asks as he leans in closer, earning a nod in response.  
Steve runs his index finger along the map, brushing past the flat of Bucky’s hand before stopping at Jamaica. “You attacked a Hydra trading post here...” Steve pauses over Cuba before moving over to Antigua. “...Here, and here. Was the one up in Charleston you?”  
Bucky leans in closer, bowing his head and looking up at Steve through his dark lashes. “You been reading up on me, Stevóske?”  
Steve sits back and clears his throat, suddenly very aware of Sam’s presence in the room.  
“A good captain keeps abreast of the situation,” he says, his voice rising sharply.  
Sam lets out a loud snort, and Steve glowers at him briefly before turning back to Bucky.  
“These weren’t random attacks,” he says thoughtfully. “It’s systematic.”  
Bucky gives him an encouraging smile, the fine lines in the corners of his eyes crinkling.  
“You have insider knowledge,” Steve breathes.  
The lines around Bucky’s eyes deepen as his smile stretches wider. “Lord Pierce got…” He hesitates, searching for the right word, then by way of explanation pushes the stack of papers with his finger, looking at Steve expectantly as they flutter to the floor.  
“He got lazy,” Steve says slowly.  
“Ava,” he runs his thumb along the edge of the desk. “Trade posts, shipping routes, treasure ships.” Bucky gives him a sly look. “Taught me letters, how to hold a sword. Then leaves all these papers around.” Bucky shrugs. “What can you expect?”  
“You really hate the guy, huh?” Sam mutters.  
Bucky’s expression hardens. “He took everything from me. I will do the same for him.”  
“So you’ve made a career out of putting that knowledge to use,” Sam smirks. “Made a few enemies too.”  
“Well there’s no love for Hydra on this ship,” Steve says. “They’ve been throwing their weight around Europe, and their influence is starting to reach across the Atlantic.” He sweeps his hand across the map, over the line of fallen Pirate towns. “I would be a thorn in their side.”  
Bucky looks between Steve and Sam. “Fast ship, good crew. We could do lot of damage.”  
Steve glances up at Sam, who gives him a brief nod.  
Steve raises his hand, palm open. “What have you got?”

“ _Mishto_!” Bucky exclaims, looking so damn happy it makes Steve’s heart ache.  
Bucky leans across the desk, grabbing Steve’s inkwell and tracing it along the eastern coast of Africa, positioning it just west of Kenya and north of Lake Victoria.  
“Heard of Wakanda?” he asks, taking a scrap of parchment from the stack.  
Sam nods. “Yeah, a little. They’re a pretty secretive nation, no one’s even sure of the location.” Bucky taps the inkwell. “There?”  
Bucky nods.  
“I’ll be damned,” Sam mutters.  
“They trade with Hydra,” Steve adds. “Wakandan steel, weapons. At least that’s what I’ve heard.”  
Bucky nods, folding and refolding his parchment. “They trade in…” he stops to think, then holds his wrists together, hands splayed out.  
“Restraints?” Steve guesses. He remembers the iron manacles pinning Bucky to the hull of the Hydra mercenary ship and suppresses a shudder. Bucky raises his hands a little and shakes them, miming a struggle.  
“They are prisoners?” Steve tries. “They are under duress?”  
Bucky nods and picks up his parchment again.  
“Hydra spent years trying to find them, trying to start trade. They said na.” Bucky smooths down the creases on his parchment. “Sent twenty armed men to the palace one night, came back with king T’Chaka’s greatest treasure. The Jewel of Wakanda.” Bucky pulls apart the parchment, and it unfolds into a little boat. “Trade, or you never see your Jewel again.”  
Bucky carefully places the boat on the map and pushes it towards South America.  
“They’re keeping it hostage to secure trade with Wakandans,” Steve frowns.  
Sam reaches out and picks up the paper boat. “A jewel, huh? What are you thinking? Sell it on? Thing like that would be difficult to shift.”  
“But the king of Wakanda would pay well to get it back,” Steve gives Bucky a sidelong glance. “And losing that trade would really inconvenience Hydra.”  
Bucky takes the boat out of Sam's hands and places it on the map. “Bero doesn’t make port, stays out at sea.”  
“Oh, you’d like that, Steve,” Sum mutters, and Steve hisses at him to quiet down.  
“Resupplies here,” Bucky pushes the boat to just west of Rio de Janeiro. “Twice a year.”  
“Where would it be now?” Steve asks.  
Bucky pushes the boat out to sea. “Sails between Rio and Luanda.”  
“So I take it there’s a checkpoint up here,” Steve touches the African coastline. “As well as one in Rio?”  
“Ava,” Bucky says. “Nothing in between.”  
Steve pushes the paper boat along the blue painted desktop. “Sam, call a meeting. We’ll put it to the crew.”

The plan is met with unanimous favour, and they change course, heading south. The crew take the news of a search for treasure with great enthusiasm, and argue over what the Jewel could be over their evening meals. With a journey taking months, there is plenty of time to speculate.  
Every evening Steve goes up on deck to look to the stars, and sees the North Star sink further and further down the horizon. He would miss its presence were it not for his own North Star leaning on the rail beside him and pointing out the new stars that wheel across the sky.  
The southern sky is filled with strangers, more stars than Steve could possibly name. He follows Bucky’s outstretched hand as he traces shapes in the shining sky and repeats the names. The Dog star. The Southern Cross.  
Luis delights in the crowded sky, pointing out the gods sleeping between the stars. A serpent chases a frog, and is in turn pursued by a bird. A fox skulks along the horizon, following the procession along the spread of the Milky Way, biding its time.

“Look, all I’m saying is it’s probably gold, right?” Clint dunks a chunk of ships biscuit in his ale and waves it at Nat. “Don’t they worship a cat? It’ll be a big golden cat.”  
“It’s a black panther,” Nat raises an eyebrow. “Why make it out of gold and then paint it black?”  
Luis slams his mug of ale on the table. “I heard that one of those pharoah guys? The ones with the big,” Luis waves his hands over his head. “Hats and shit? Had a throne made out of solid fucking gold, and then covered it in wood,” Luis sits back on the bench and drains his mug.  
“What’s your point?” Clint asks when Luis doesn’t offer further explanation.  
Thor fetches a fresh jug of ale, going around the tables and refilling the empty cups, making a point of offering ale to Steve first, followed by Bucky, sat in his usual place at Steve’s side.  
“My point is, all those pharaohs lived out in the fucking desert. They had gold coming out the ass, but trees? Trees were _precious_. So to them, they were taking a, you know, regular commodity and covering it with something rare, then bulshitting that it was all solid wood. Kind of like when you take a chunk of brass and cover it in a little bit of gold, call it a solid gold ring. You feel me?”  
Clint chews on a chunk of biscuit. “So you think it’s a piece of wood?”  
Nat reaches across the table and flicks Clint’s ear, making him jump.  
“Ow,” he whines, rubbing his ear.  
“I’m just saying that value is subjective an’ shit. What’s precious to one person is common shit to another. Value is like, is how much folks want shit, right? Compared to other shit? And how much they’re willing to part with for that valued shit. Like when those Spanish fuckers first came to our lands, and we thought to ourselves ‘Woah, the gods themselves have come to say ‘hey, how you doing?’ to us’. How amazing is that? We should totally pray to this dead horse they left behind.” Luis pauses to take a drink of ale. “So they want the shiny bits that we found in the rivers. Sure thing, my godly friends, here’s all the stuff we collected over a thousand years. And they want more. Fuck, man, took us forever to get the shit we had!”  
Luis pauses, staring into his mug. “So they started cutting off people's hands when they didn’t bring more gold. Then killing the men, taking the women. All because they placed value on these shiny little bits of shit, figured it was worth more than food or fresh water. Figured it was worth more than people.”  
The Mess falls silent, everyone staring down at their ale and rum.  
Peter clears his throat when the pall has stretched a little too long. “They worship a monkey too, right? A big white one. I bet it’s a huge white diamond.”  
Pietro leans forward. “Is the diamond shaped like a monkey?”

Steve leaves the crew to their discussions and climbs up to the main deck. The night sky is draped with clouds, offering glimpses of the moon, hanging low and golden over the sea. He takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with salt air, breathing out at the sound on the cusp of his hearing, the slightest whisper of bare feet on wooden boards.  
“Buck?” he murmurs, and a familiar form leans against the rail beside him, quilted jacket wrapped around him to keep out the cold wind.  
“Mm-hmm,” Bucky answers.  
They stands in companionable silence for a while, watching the moonlit clouds drift across the sky, and Bucky starts to hum, a sorrowful melody that Steve picks up after a few verses. Bucky rarely sings before the crew, but under the stars he finds his voice, and Steve feels a rare kind of blessed to hear it.

_A fair ship is mine called the Golden Vanity  
And she sails now in the north country  
I fear she will be taken by a Spanish gallalee  
As we sail by the lowlands low  
As we sail in the lonely sea_

Steve closes his eyes and as Bucky’s voice, low and rich, flows out across the waters. He listens, as if in a gentle enthrallment, until the last verse, when the foolish sailor of the tale bows his head and sinks to the bottom of the sea. In his younger, more hot-headed days, Steve might have felt vindication in the crewman choosing death for his transgressions. But now he feels only sorry for a fool swayed by empty promises.  
Bucky bumps Steve’s shoulder, gently nudging him out of his somber thoughts.  
“What you think it is? This jewel?” Bucky asks.  
Steve breathes out slowly, looking up at a break in clouds to see Luis’ star-serpent.  
“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “I find more… worth… in good ale and fair weather.” He gives Bucky a soft smile. “And good company.”  
Bucky huffs and bumps his shoulder again.  
“I mean it, Buck. What good are diamonds? Can’t feed you or keep you warm.” Steve tips his head to one side. “You’ll most likely get run through by someone who wants it more. May as well be a star in the sky.”  
“Star would be… useful, ava?” Bucky says with a teasing grin.  
“Ava,” Steve nods. “It would.”

On the morning of the sixty-third day, Steve wakes up early. He dresses and shaves, bracing himself against the wall of his cabin while he scrapes the razor blade carefully against his throat, and wipes the traces of soap away with a cloth. It's far too hot for his hat and frock coat this close to the equator, so he rolls up his shirtsleeves and climbs up onto the deck.  
The night crew, Luis at the wheel, Scott on the deck and Peter up in the rigging, yawn and blink and wish him good morning as Steve passes them by. A handful of the other crew are already awake, casting fishing lines baited with ships biscuit down into the sea or making the most of the morning light to sew ditty bags or mend clothing.  
Steve would swear blind that he wasn’t actively searching, but he comes to a stop when he finds Bucky on the starboard side, watching the water intently.  
“Shh!” he hisses before Steve can say a word, and points out to sea.  
There is nothing to see but the blue skies and steady rolling of the waves. Steve leans against the rail and waits patiently for whatever Bucky has his sights on.  
The waves shift and rise, and there is a sudden spout of water as a whale breaks the surface. Bucky lets out a delighted gasp as the creature twists onto it’s side, it’s barnacle-crusted body rolling as it raises a flipper up high into the air before bringing it down again with a crash.  
The resulting wave is strong enough to reach the ship, slapping against the hull and making her gently list to one side before righting. Steve glances up at Peter, who is gripping tightly to the upper shroud and watching as the whale arcs its tail high out of the water, tightening his grip on the ropes when the tail comes down with a dull boom, the waves rocking the ship.  
Peter lets out a joyful whoop, clinging onto the rigging as the mast swings back and forth like a metronome. Steve looks up, ready to call the alarm should he lose his grip and fall, but Peter holds fast. He untangles a hand from the rigging and waves down at Steve, who gives him a sharp little salute in return.  
Peter laughs, pushing the hair out of his eyes and turning to scan the horizon. He lets out a yelp and points out to sea, away from the whale. Steve turns, following the line of his finger to a ship on the horizon.  
“Luis!” Steve calls across the deck. “Ship sighted portside. Let’s go take a closer look.”  
“You got it, Cap!” Luis shouts back, and tugs on the wheel.  
Bucky gives the whale a last, longing look before following Steve to the port side, waiting patiently while he extends his telescope and spies the distant ship.  
“Looks to be a barque,” Steve mutters, handing over the telescope and waiting while Bucky takes a look. “What do you think? Is it our ship?”  
Bucky lowers the telescope and gives Steve a wide grin that Steve instinctively meets with one of his own, the thrill of a good fight and rich reward singing in his veins.  
“Let’s go ruin their day.”

The crew ready themselves for battle, gathering together their weapons and sharpening their blades as Natasha and Pietro prepare the cannons. There is an air of calm on deck, despite what is coming, each crewman focused on their task, indifferent to the action around them.  
Steve paces up and down, pausing to help Thor gather together the ropes and grappling hooks that will pull the two ships together for boarding.  
At Steve’s command Clint unfurls the ship’s flag, the white star and circle on a black background flapping in the wind.  
The other ship responds almost instantly, Steve watches the crew hurrying to change course, knowing that it’s already too late for them. He grips the railing, Sam at his right side, Bucky on his left, keeping watch as the Star & Shield pulls up alongside the barque, _The Raft_ painted in white along the hull. Steve gives Nat the order to fire a warning shot.  
“Try not to kill anyone,” he adds. “Just shake them up a bit.”  
Nat takes aim, sending a cannonball across the deck of the other ship. There is a crash and muted screams as several men are sent overboard. The remaining crew scramble to safety, only to be ordered back to their posts by the furious captain.  
Nat gives Steve an unapologetic smirk. “You said shake them up.”  
Steve sighs and turns to the ship, raising his sword at the captain up on the aft deck.  
“Good morning,” he shouts. “I’m Captain Rogers of the Star  & Shield. Do you surrender?”  
The captain shouts back a string of curses, drawing his sword and pointing it towards Steve. His second in command shrinks back, as if to distance himself from the captain's behaviour.  
Steve hums thoughtfully, glancing at Sam. “Does it seem to you that this crew aren’t invested in this fight?”  
Bucky lets out an amused snort beside him. Across the water the other captain continues to curse at them.  
“I reckon in their place I’d be tired of sailing back and forth across the Atlantic, never touching land.” Sam says, giving Steve a wry glance.  
Steve nods, taking the barbed remark on the chin. “You sir?” Steve calls out to the second in command, trying not to laugh when he looks startled and points to himself hesitantly. “Yes, you. Will you let us aboard? We only want the jewel, there’s no need for bloodshed.”  
The man looks at his captain nervously, who roars in his face for even considering the offer.  
“I say no bloodshed,” Steve adds. “Things happen in the heat of the moment.”  
For a moment none of the crew move, and then the officer draws his sword while the captain stares at him in horror.

They send ropes and grappling hooks, and pull the Raft in, fastening the two ships securely together before Steve and his crew climb aboard.  
At Steve’s orders, no weapons are drawn. The other crew make no attempt to attack, watching curiously as the band of pirates cross the wooden boards, climbing up to the aft deck where the captain and his first officer wait.  
“Captain Rogers,” Steve says to the officer. “And you are?”  
The captain snarls at the officer, who bows his head and stutters in response. “Klein, sir.”  
Steve turns to the captain. “And you?”  
“Rot in hell you worthless scum, you’ll all-”  
“Sitwell,” Klein offers. “Captain Sitwell.”  
Steve ignores the insults Sitwell spits out, instead turning to the assembled crew. He feels Bucky move to his side, watching closely for any threat, and feels an odd little thrill, a fluttering just below his sternum. The way Bucky stands, shoulders back, one hand on the pommel of his cutlass, is the closest thing he has ever felt to being safe.  
He swallows down the sensation, keeping it close, and gestures to the gathered crew on the deck below.  
“This man Sitwell,” he asks. “Is he a good captain?”  
The crew shuffle their feet and look down, mumbling indistinctly. Sitwell starts to protest and Sam punches him in the gut. He doubles over, wheezing and stumbling back.  
“He… he makes us work double shifts,” one the crew shouts up. There is a mutter of agreement.  
“He rations the rum,” another calls out. “Mixes it with water.”  
“And the waters none too fresh, neither,” a new voice adds.  
There is an angry rumbling through the crew.  
“We never set foot on land!”  
“We get stale bread while he eats salt pork!”  
“He’s an asshole!”  
Steve nods attentively. “And Klein?”  
The crew shrug and mumble, but the noises are positive. Beside them Klein blushes and stutters his thanks.  
“Well, that’s decided,” Steve ushers the officer forward. “Say hello to your new captain.”  
Without another word he turns and runs his sword through Sitwells guts, pushing the startled man to the rail before pulling his sword free. Sitwell only has a moment to stare, slack-jawed as he grips his stomach with both hands, trying to keep his guts from spilling out, before Steve gives him a shove, sending him over the rail and into the sea.  
Sam gives the shocked Klein a pat on the shoulder. “Looks like you been promoted.”

“What do I do now?” Klein asks as he leads the way down to the officers cabins. “If you’re taking the Jewel we can’t exactly keep sailing back and forth, can we?” He looks suddenly worried. “And Hydra won’t be too pleased that he’s gone. What do I tell them?”  
A handful of the Raft’s crew stumble out of the captain's cabin with armfuls of clothes and liquor. Clint in the lead, brandishing a cut-glass decanter of brandy.  
“Just clearing out your new quarters, sir,” one of the crew says with a clumsy bow.  
“Uh,” Klein looks to Steve for support.  
“Very good,” Steve says warmly. “As you were.”  
The men scuttle off, trailing silk shirts and tobacco leaves in their wake.  
“Piracy,” Sam suggests, much to Klein's surprise.  
“It’s worth considering,” Steve agrees. “You have a fine ship, a well organised crew. There’s no shortage of merchants in the Indies. I’d keep out of Europe, though.”  
Klein nods, looking a little starry-eyed, before pulling himself together. He leads them through the cramped corridors below deck, stopping at a reinforced door to one side of the great cabin and tugging a set of heavy iron keys out of his pocket.  
“Sitwell kept everything under lock and key. Brandy, rations, cider, not just the Jewel.” He slowly gets to work on the three padlocks on the door. “Honestly, it’s a relief to be rid of him. Nothing but trouble.”  
One padlock drops to the floor with a heavy thump.  
“We were stationed in Rio de Janeiro for a time, but he kept escaping. Then we were stationed on an island to the north.” Another padlock joins its brethren on the floor. “Kept trying to swim to the mainland. Can you believe that? Jumped overboard. Had to cancel the daily exercise, and then he goes and breaks a window instead.”  
Bucky, who has been keeping his distance, watching Steve’s back with the palm of his hand curled around the pommel of his hanger, takes a step forward. “So?”  
Klein glances back at him. “That’s why we had to keep sailing. Whenever we got near land he’d fight his way off the ship and try to swim to shore.”  
“He?” Steve asks as the last padlock falls to the floor.  
Klein nods and knocks on the door. A whispery, low-timbred voice calls out in response.  
“Gentlemen,” Klein says, giving the door a push. “Let me introduce Prince T’Challa, the Jewel of Wakanda.”  
Beyond the door is a small, well furnished cabin, dimly lit with lanterns as every window has been boarded over. In one corner of the room is a high-sided cot, in the centre a desk piled high with books. Sitting at the desk, an open book in front of him and a curious look upon his face, is a well-dressed young man.  
“Lieutenant Klein,” he says with an amused tilt to his head, though no smile touches his lips.  
“Captain, actually,” Klein answers, straightening his coat.  
Clint, back for another load of plunder, pushes his way past Sam and peers into the room.  
“Hey!” he says indignantly. “You’re not made of gold.”

Bucky takes Clint by the shoulder and gently pulls him around, pushing him back towards the captain's quarters. The man at the desk smiles, displaying even rows of pearl-like teeth.  
“Please come in,” he stands and gestures to the chairs around the desk. “It’s been too long since I had company.”  
Steve glances at Sam before stepping into the room, approaching the desk slowly.  
“Thank you, _Captain_ Klein,” the man adds, staring at him until he flushes red and retreats with a stuttered apology.  
Steve takes the seat opposite, as he man sits back down, Sam taking the place at Steve’s right. Bucky doesn’t sit, but circles the room slowly, one hand on his weapon. It does not go unnoticed by the man, who watches him carefully.  
“So you’re the Jewel of Wakanda,” Steve says by way of greeting.  
The mans smile widens. “Not what you were expecting.”  
Sam grumbles under his breath, checking out the room with no hint of subtlety.  
“You could say that,” Steve agrees.  
“We came here to steal some great treasure taken from the palace of the king of Wakanda,” Sam grouses. “I don’t see no treasure.”  
The man agrees, but takes pity on them. “Allow me to introduce myself. T’Challa, son of T’Chaka.” He puts his hand to his chest, fingers splayed, and tilts his head forward in a slight bow. “I am here at the pleasure of Lord Pierce, director of Hydra’s Atlantic trade route.”  
Bucky flinches almost imperceptibly at the casual use of the name, and if T’Challa notices, he does not draw attention to it. Bucky takes a deep breath before continuing his exploration of the room.  
Steve understands suddenly, and wishes that T’Challa was a jewel. A rock or a statue, anything. Anything but a young man torn away from his family in the dead of night and locked in a room to moulder away, for the sake of tempered steel.  
“You were the treasure taken from your father's palace,” Steve says slowly. “The Wakandans trade with Hydra to keep you alive.”  
T’Challa nods solemnly. “It has been several years since I last saw my family. I wonder if they would even recognise me.”  
His brow furrows, and Steve catches the briefest hint of distress before T’Challa schools his expression into one of benevolence. It’s painful to witness.  
“I take it from your attire that you are pirates, yes?” T’Challa asks.  
“Yeah,” Sam says proudly.  
“I confess I have always been fascinated by Pirates. Edward Teach, Calico Jack…” T’Challa looks over the piles of books on his desk, brushing a hand affectionately over their spines.  
“Well I hope we don’t disappoint,” Steve says with a forced smile.

The prince is a handful of years younger than Steve, by his appearance. A young man who has not seen his family for several years. Steve has a sudden, vivid image of a boy sat at the desk, his feet not reaching the floor, reading his books by lantern light and dreaming of a life beyond his four crowded walls.  
“I assume that Captain Sitwell is no longer with us?” T’Challa asks, pulling Steve from his thoughts.  
Sam lets out a derisive snort, which answers the question well enough.  
“So you have taken control of the ship,” T’Challa smoothes his fingers across the page of his open book.  
Steve watches the way he squares his shoulders, the way iron seems to course down his spine. He looks a king in all but name as the iron fills his speech. “And you are here to make your demands. So make them.”  
From across the room Bucky turns to Steve. There is something in his gaze that Steve cannot name, but he _knows_. He knows. He’s seen it far too many times before. In the stinking holds of slave ships. On the steps of the gallows, glimpsed through a telescope. The look of one prisoner in the presence of another.  
Steve crosses his legs and folds his hands in his lap. “The ship is in the hands of Captain Klein now.”  
“Don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad one,” Sam mutters.  
“But yes, you were part of the negotiation,” Steve admits.  
He glances up at Bucky, searching for reassurance, for wisdom. There is no concern or doubt in Bucky’s expression, only trust, perfect and absolute. Steve turns back to T’Challa.  
“It would be a dreadful inconvenience to Lord Pierce if he were to lose his bargaining chip with the kingdom of Wakanda,” Steve says. “The thought alone certainly goes some ways to making up for a lack of any actual treasure.”  
“Not that far,” Sam mutters.  
Steve lets out a soft chuckle. “Your majesty,” he says, smiling so wide his cheeks ache. “It’s high time you went home.”  
T’Challa swallows, his gaze darting briefly to Bucky before returning to Steve and Sam. “At what price?”  
Steve tilts his head to one side. “You’ll sever ties with Hydra?” T’Challa nods. “That’s payment enough.”  
Sam kicks Steve’s ankle and glares at him. Steve lets out a soft yelp and rubs his leg.  
“My Captain would also like to request supplies,” Sam says through gritted teeth. “Ale and salted meat. Mainly pork but also some beef, stored in separate barrels. Flour, oats and lamp oil too.”  
T’Challa nods solemnly, though his eyes are bright. “Is that everything?”  
“Alcohol,” Sam says firmly. “Brandy, rum, I don’t care so long as it’s strong. Needs to be, working for him.”

Seven barrels of sweet, strong cider and a dozen bottles of rum from the Raft are enough incentive for the crew to welcome T’Challa on board. Steve provides him with two cabins of his own, which are quickly filled with his extensive library.  
After so long in isolation T’Challa is impatient to be let loose, joining the crew for their twice daily meals and listening in open fascination to their songs and stories. Thor, who cannot bear the sight of a man sitting idle on deck, even one with a book in his hand who insists that he is perfectly fine where he is, takes it upon himself to teach T’Challa how to sail.  
Steve shoots down any notion of having an actual Prince climbing the rigging or moving barrels around in the hold. Not out of a misplaced sense of propriety, more concern over how the kingdom of Wakanda would react if their attempts to return their beloved Jewel get cut short by losing him to the Atlantic.  
T’Challa keeps both feet on the deck and learns his knots, sitting beside Pietro with scraps of rope as they work their way through bowlines and hitches.  
If the evening skies are clear he joins the crew on the deck as they work their way through the cider and bid good riddance to the sun for another day. Thor, a Norseman whose blood runs too thick for the stifling heat of the south Atlantic, takes the night watch, passing over duties as Boatswain to Bucky until they journey north again.  
On the evenings where the rain doesn’t let up and the crew gather in the humid Mess, to drink and complain about the weather, T’Challa pays a visit to the Great Cabin with an offering of a book or article for Steve’s attention.  
Steve welcomes him with a cup of wine and a book of his own to share, and they burn their way through supplies of lamp oil in conversation over the painted oak desk.  
T’Challa does not draw attention to Bucky’s silent presence at Steve’s side, carving scraps of wood into the delicate figures that litter the map, one bare foot resting on the edge of Steve’s seat as if marking his territory. But every so often, Bucky will silently push a little object towards Steve: a ship, a sea monster with the body of a serpent, some trinket with a deeper meaning. Steve’s expression softens as he takes the gifts, turning it around in his hands before finding it a place on the map. Sometimes T’Challa will hear the story connected to that carved figure. More often he will not.  
T’Challa watches closely, and for the time being holds his tongue.

On the twenty third day of travelling, a few hours before sunset, Steve climbs down the ladder to the Mess, where the crew not on duty are lingering over dinner and avoiding the rain.  
“To your posts,” Steve says before anyone can protest. “We have reached the Cape.”  
They scramble to their feet, thundering up the ladder to the main deck, splitting up and gathering in groups under the three masts as rain lashes down on them, soaking them to the skin.  
Steve doesn’t look back, pulling on his hat as he strides to the bow of the ship and pauses under the foremast, waiting as Clint climbs up the rigging and takes his position.  
“Hawkeye, what can you see?”  
Up on the foretop, Clint scowls at the storm. “No end in sight, Cap.”  
Steve hums, nodding at T’Challa as he approaches, curious. “Then we wait out the storm here. Take in the sails.”  
At Clint's whistle the crew get to work, some climbing up the shrouds while others stay on the deck and take up the ropes. Clint gives orders to the crew on the foremast, while Wanda takes charge of the mainmast and lastly Bucky on the mizzenmast. Steve watches proudly as they work quickly, gathering up the lowest set of square sails and cinching them in place before moving further up the mast to the next sails. At his side T’Challa makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, halfway between impressed and amused.  
“Have you ever cast an anchor?” Steve asks.  
T’Challa shakes his head, and Steve gestures to a piece of machinery at the base of the foremast, hidden amongst the gathered ropes and rigging. It’s a long horizontal winch, a wide, notched cylinder with rope as thick as T’Challa’s wrist wrapped around either end. The square notches are positioned evenly in rings across the cylinder, with two square-cut lengths of wood sticking up from the topmost holes. Steve pulls out both pieces of wood and points to either side of the bow where large iron anchors rest against the hull.  
“I could use a hand,” Steve offers T’Challa one of the pieces.  
T’Challa accepts the offer, following Steve’s lead as he slots his piece into a notch and uses it to lever the cylinder, letting out the rope a few feet at a time. T’Challa manages to keep pace with Steve as the rope plays out, the heavy iron anchors sinking down into the sea. They work in tandem, T’Challa blinking the sweat and the rain from his eyes, until Steve calls for him to stop.  
Steve locks the windlass into position and takes off his hat, fanning himself and letting the rain cool him off while he catches his breath.  
There is a whistle from above that the sails have all been taken in, and Steve gives the order for everyone to return to the Mess.

“I confess I do not understand,” T’Challa admits as he follows Steve to the Great Cabin. “Why have we stopped?”  
Steve shrugs off his sodden coat, hanging it over the back of a chair near the stove. He levers the iron door open with a poker and throws in a few logs, raking down the coals before nudging it closed.  
Steve looks up as Bucky comes into the room, his hair is soaked and plastered to his cheeks, but he has managed to change out of his drenched clothing. He grits his teeth to keep them from chattering, and Steve pats the chair in front of the fire.  
“Sit down before you fall down, Buck.”  
Bucky does as he’s told, accepting the measure of brandy Steve pours out for him in silence.  
“We’ve reached the Cape of Good Hope,” Steve says, handing T’Challa his own brandy.  
T’Challa waits while Steve swallows his liquor in a single gulp. “And?”  
“We wait out the storm,” Steve refills his cup.  
“We’ve ridden out storms before,” T’Challa frowns. “Why is this one so different?”  
“Cape is where the Atlantic and Indian pani meet,” Bucky says quietly.  
T’Challa can count the conversations he has had with Bucky over the last month on one hand, so he takes a step closer as Steve takes Bucky’s empty mug and refills it.  
Bucky holds both hands up in the air, palms facing, and claps them together. “Don’t mix well.”  
Steve pushes the mug into Bucky’s hands with a fond smile. “Many a good ship has been wrecked on the Cape. We’ve been fortunate, this storm is a southwester. Once it blows over we should get a few days respite. We’ll sail close to the shore, up through the Mozambique channel. With luck we should make good time.”  
“Need more than _baxt_ ,” Bucky huffs. “ _Pani_ runs sinister, deep troughs and great waves. Kill us all if we wander too far from the shore.”  
“We don’t want to end up like those poor souls on the Dutchman,” Steve agrees.  
“The Dutchman?” T’Challa catches the scent of a good tale, and pulls out a chair.  
“Cursed ship,” Steve stays on his feet, one hand resting on the back of Bucky’s chair. “Doomed to spend eternity trying to round the Cape.”  
“Captain Davy Jones, caught in a storm at Table Bay,” Bucky adds, “Cursed the Cape and the Cape cursed him right back.”  
“They say you can catch a glimpse of his ship, the Flying Dutchman, in the storms around the Cape, luring unwitting sailors to their deaths,” Steve pushes his little wooden ship along the map. “So we wait out the storm.”

It takes three days for the storm to break. The crew, restless with pent up energy and more than a little fear, leap into action, unfurling the sails as Steve and T’Challa weigh the anchors, impatient to get moving again.  
Every one of them offers up some form of prayer before they set sail. Luis empties his last bottle of Xcalak liquor into the sea while asking Chalchiuhtlicue for mercy. In the darkness of the hold the twins light candles, whispering half-remembered prayers before snuffing the flames and returning to their duties. Thor carves marks along the hull, strange and jagged little symbols like stick men dancing across the curved wooden beams.  
Steve never finds Bucky praying, though sometimes he will run his fingers over the mast and murmur softly to it in his strange language. Steve knows a little, enough to catch a few whispered words. _Brave girl_ , Bucky murmurs to the seasoned oak, _be strong_.  
Steve had long ago buried his faith in god, deep in the cold ground with his good mother’s bones. Sending his fear into the skies in desperation strikes him as futile, though he does not begrudge his crew their beliefs. Pouring his hope into wood and iron, however, soothes an ache under his ribs. He listens to the softly uttered phrases in the hope that if can tilt his head just right, then like twisting the lenses of a telescope, what is unfocused will somehow become clear.  
It doesn’t happen like that.  
Bucky, ever watchful, takes him by the hand. Calloused fingers criss-crossed with scars press his palm to rain-soaked wood.  
“Like this,” Bucky whispers. “Brave girl. Be strong where you must, bend with the storm where you can. Do not falter. Do not break.”  
The words seep into his skin, settle in his bones. 

Their prayers are heard, though Steve cannot say if it was by a one-eyed Allfather or a girl who carries the ocean in her skirts. Perhaps it was the ship herself who answered them.  
They round the Cape, the land in plain view on the portside, and bear north.  
The wind blows fiercely around them, buffeting the ship and threatening to tear the sails. Clint lashes himself to the foretop and keeps watch for as long as the sun is in sky, looking for waterspouts and riptides, for any signs of cyclones forming. He tells anyone who asks that it’s too early in the year for them, but still climbs the mast at sunrise and doesn’t untie the ropes and move from his post until the last traces of red bleed out of the sky.  
Nat becomes quiet and irritable, pacing back and forth across the deck, looking up at the masts when the ship is knocked by a great wave, ready to sound the alarm.  
The days bleed into each other, days of frayed ropes and torn sails. Of moments of sleep snatched between duties. Bruce works endlessly to keep the ship afloat, caulking leaks in the hull that seem to multiply before his eyes, springing faster than he can repair them.  
On the sixth day, or the ninth, Steve isn’t sure anymore, the storm blows itself out, leaving a southeasterly wind that carries them along the Mozambique channel, steady and true.  
Clint sends word down to the crew, and they slowly climb onto the deck, dragging their feet, too tired to complain about being summoned.  
Clint offers no explanation, just points out to the starboard side, grinning as the crew make their way over to the rail and see what the fuss is about.  
The water sparkles in the sunlight, clear enough to see the white sands and corals that rise up to the surf and form what Steve can only describe as Paradise.  
An island, barely four miles across, the beach leading up to a dense green forest.  
“Did we die?” Scott asks suddenly.  
Nat snorts. “You think when we die we go to a place like this?”  
Scott falls silent, leaning on the rail and letting out a wistful sigh.  
“I might?” Peter says hopefully, earning him a slap on the back from Luis.  
Steve climbs up to the aft deck where Bucky is already checking the rigging for frayed ropes. He gives Steve a lopsided smile and climbs up the shroud, surefooted and strong.  
“Brave girl,” Steve whispers as he pats the mizzenmast. “Thank you.” 

“Captain? Might I have a moment?”  
Steve looks up from his view of the horizon to see T’Challa climbing up to the aft deck to join him.  
“Good evening,” Steve gives him a warm smile. “Looking forward to going home?”  
T’Challa’s expression softens. “More than you can imagine.”  
Steve nods, looking up at the sails. Bucky is high above them, climbing along the ratlines under the highest yardarm. “We’ll drop anchor just off shore, and take the boat across. You’re sure there will be some of your people in Mombasa?”  
“The _Dora Milaji_ will await me there.” T’Challa sounds confident. “I apologise that I cannot invite you to come with us.”  
Steve shakes his head amicably. “Secrecy. I understand completely. And you will extend us the same courtesy?”  
T’Challa flashes a brief smile. “Of course. However, I wished to speak with you without your…” He hesitates, carefully considering his next word. “Shadow.”  
Above them Bucky sets to work replacing a frayed rope.  
“He is not what he seems.” T’Challa’s voice is placating, as though trying to soften a blow.  
“Excuse me?” Steve snaps.  
“I have…” T’Challa picks his words carefully. “Encountered him before. He is Lord Pierce’s right hand. Whenever an example needed making, a killing done,” T’Challa points up. “That was the man he sent.”  
Steve glances up at the rigging, checking that Bucky is too far away to overhear.  
“He is a killer,” T’Challa’s voice rises. “A monster capable of unspeakable acts-”  
“We are all killers,” Steve hisses, taking a step closer to T’Challa, though the man does not give ground. “Whatever he was, whatever you _think_ he was, he’s not. He’s my…”  
Steve falters, the words piling up in his throat like lead shot, heavy and rough and weighing on his tongue.  
“It is a fine thing, the love you bear your men,” T’Challa’s attempts to soothe only grate on Steve’s nerves. “I would not wish to see it get them killed.”  
Steve thinks of a set of gallows through a spyglass. Forcing himself to watch as the bodies kicked and struggled until they went limp.  
He breathes deeply, filling his lungs with salt and spray. Feels the weight of iron on his tongue.  
“Get out of my sight,” he snarls, his hands balling into fists. “Or Wakanda be damned I will throw you overboard here and you can swim the rest of the way.”  
T’Challa gives him a pitying look before withdrawing, taking the steps down to the main deck.

Sam slams his hands down on the painted desk. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”  
Steve, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to the elbows, doesn’t look up from the model whale in his hand, carefully painting details on the tail with his finest brush.  
Realising that he’s getting nowhere, Sam turns to Bucky, slouched sideways in his chair next to Steve. His bare feet are propped up on the seat of Steve’s chair, toes tucked under his thigh.  
“Have you tried to talk sense into him?”  
Bucky huffs. “ _O ushalin zhalar sar o kam mangela_.”  
“Say what?”  
“He’s the boss, not me,” Bucky points the tip of his knife at Steve before returning to his carving.  
“Take the Jewel to shore and leave him there,” Steve says flatly as he adds black dotted eyes to his whale. “No waiting for supplies, no delays. You come straight back to the ship.”  
“But what about the trade?” Sam growls.  
“We’ll be fine. There’s sufficient food and ale in storage and plenty of fish to be caught.”  
Sam’s mouth drops open. After a moment he shuts it again. Despite his calm tone, Steve’s teeth are gritted. And Sam knows better than push Steve Rogers when he’s in a stubborn frame of mind.  
“Fine,” he throws up his hands. “But we are making port first damn chance we get.”  
“I’ll take that under advisement,” Steve mutters.  
“Damn your eyes, Rogers.”  
Bucky watches as Sam storms out the room. “You want to rokker?”  
Steve shakes his head, unwilling to think on what T’Challa had said, let alone talk on it, and gets jabbed in the leg with Bucky’s toe. “Hey!”  
Bucky gets up, setting his unfinished carving on the table, and goes to the stern windows. He cracks them open one by one and the room fills with the sound of splashing and laughter.  
“Stevóske,” Bucky murmurs, watching as Thor and Luis swim in the clear water, circling around the chains that lead down to the anchors on the seabed.  
“We had a disagreement,” Steve admits, wiping his paintbrush on a rag. “That’s all I have to say on the matter.”  
Bucky hums, drumming his fingers on the window frame. “You swim?”  
“What?”  
Bucky mimes a dog paddle.  
“Yes, why?” Steve says irritably, still nettled by his conversation with T’Challa from the night before.  
Bucky grins and heads for the door. “ _Haide_ ,” he claps his hands. “Come on.”  
Steve scowls, but follows Bucky down the corridor to the main deck, where Nat is leaning over the railing and laughing. Down in the water below Clint is spluttering and swearing.  
“You needed a bath, Barton,” Nat calls down, and gets some colourful language in return.  
Further down the deck Pietro grabs his shrieking sister and throws them both over the side.  
Bucky strips off his shirt, revealing firm, honeyed skin that makes Steve’s heart clatter against his ribs. He steps up onto the rail, beckoning Steve closer.  
Steve shakes his head, folding his arms across his chest. Bucky shrugs and gives him a wave before diving into the water below.  
“Cap,” Nat says in a staged whisper. “You can go in voluntary, or get pushed. This way you at least keep your boots.”  
The Master Gunner means business, and Steve quickly shucks his boots and shirt. He climbs up onto the rail and looks down at his crew, Clint swimming a lazy backstroke while the twins try to duck each other under the surface. Bucky looks up, the water shimmering around him, and waves at Steve to come down.  
He takes a deep breath, and lets himself fall.

Steve’s clothes are still soaked in seawater and his ears ringing with the sound of laughter when the boat is ready to be lowered into the water. Sam drops the last trunk full of books into the boat.  
“It’ll be a damned miracle we don’t sink,” he mutters  
The crew, soaked to the skin and in high spirits, gather on the deck to say farewell to the prince who, for a short time, got to be a pirate. Steve watches in silence as they say their farewells, T’Challa bowing his head, humbled by their affection. Even Bucky takes a moment to shake his hand and wish him luck.  
T’Challa clasps Bucky’s hands in both of his, and speaks quickly in a low tone beyond Steve’s hearing. Whatever he says makes Bucky raise his head proudly and nod once before wishing him good luck, and returning to work.  
When the crowd has dispersed, Steve finally comes forward.  
“Your highness,” Steve says warily.  
T’Challa smiles and inclines his head. “Captain. Thank you again for your hospitality, you have done me a great service. I only wish I could repay you.”  
Steve is all too aware that he is dripping saltwater on the deck. “Make life difficult for Hydra and we’ll call it even.”  
T’Challa looks across the deck where Bucky and Luis are winding ropes and securing them to the base of the mainmast. He seems about to speak, then reconsiders. “I would wish to part in friendship,” he says finally.  
Steve nods. “Fair winds and swift water, your highness. Try not to get carried off in the night again.”  
T’Challa lets out a soft chuckle. “I will do my best.”

No one is inclined to brave navigating the Cape again so soon, if ever. Steve clears a space on the map and Bucky marks out Hydra’s India Trade Routes on the painted wood. They plot a new course heading southeast, avoiding the tropical storms as best they can. There are merchant ships in the Indian ocean, and plunder to be had.

Steve climbs up onto the deck after dinner to see the sunset, finding Bucky already at the stern, the skies painted with red and gold, the reflected colours dappling the waves.  
Steve leans against the rail, feeling a line of heat where Bucky slumps against his side.  
“ _Na bero_ ,” Bucky grumbles.  
“No ships today,” Steve agrees. “Maybe tomorrow.”  
Bucky hums a snatch of song, some fo’c’sle lament that the crew is so fond of. Steve watches as the evening light catches loose strands of his hair, like burnished bronze in the fading light. His heart feels full, like a cup of ale that might spill over.  
“ _So_?” Bucky asks, looking at him askance.  
Steve shakes his head. “Nothing.”  
Bucky shrugs, and returns to his humming, the soft, low sound on the cusp of breaking into words, but never quite making that final step.  
Steve’s mouth fills up with words unspoken, and suddenly he can’t bear to hold them in any longer.  
“That’s not… No. There is something,” he says slowly.  
Bucky turns towards him, one elbow resting on the rail. “Stevóske?”  
Ten times or more, a hundred, a thousand, Steve has weighed his words while alone in his cabin. Searched for the perfect thing to say, when the moment came that he could speak. Nothing had ever satisfied, so he reaches out and takes Bucky’s hand in his.  
Bucky does not resist or pull away, letting his hand rest in the cradle of Steve’s fingers, watching silently as Steve draws his thumbs along the pale scars that mar his fingers.  
They are not a monster's hands. They are calloused from handling wet rope all day, worn rough with salt and sea air. Tough as leather and gentle as silk. Steve loves them. He loves every blister and burn and bitten nail.  
“Stevóske?”  
“We’ve known each other a while now, yes?”  
Bucky nods, biting his lip. “Ava.”  
“And in that time I have come to… I hold you in high regard.” Steve heaves out a breath, and Bucky turns his hand around, hooking their thumbs together.  
“Dinlo,” Bucky murmurs, drawing closer.  
Steve can feel Bucky’s breath against his cheek. He smells of salt and rum and coarse linen.  
“I am,” Steve agrees. “And my… my heart is set.”  
Bucky looks down at their joined hands. His fingers tighten almost imperceptibly.  
“And you?” Steve asks, feeling a tremor in Bucky’s fingers. “Do you care for me?”

Bucky’s hand slips out of his grasp, and Steve’s fingers close on cold air.  
“Bucky?”  
Bucky stares at him, wide-eyed, and slowly takes a step back, his bare feet moving silently on the decking. He wraps his arms around himself, clenching his fists, and turns away.  
He doesn’t make a sound, but the answer is clear.  
Steve wishes he could take back the words. Reel them in and force them back into his heart. He would carry every one of them, lead weights on his tongue, rattling in his chest. Anything to keep that look of dismay from Bucky’s eyes.  
He watches as Bucky straightens up, holding his hands stiffly at his sides.  
“I’m leaving,” Bucky’s voice is a low, pained rasp. “Next place we make port.”  
He doesn’t turn around, keeping his gaze fixed on the last traces of light on the horizon.  
A dull, pained sound creeps up Steve’s throat. He tries to swallow it down and it lodges in his chest like a jagged piece of glass, scraping him raw every time his heart beats.  
“As you wish,” Steve’s voice is barely audible. “Sam will see to it that you receive your share of the takings.”  
He can barely see Bucky in the fading light. “Deserters get left on a desert island with a pistol and a bottle of rum.”  
Steve knows the old stories, and shakes his head, though Bucky can’t see him. “You’ll get your full share. And any supplies you need.”  
Bucky doesn’t answer. And in that moment Steve knows that this is the last conversation they will ever have. They will never map their course by the stars together again. There will be no more wooden ships and sea monsters for his desk. No cold toes pushed under his leg to warm up on long, stormy nights.  
Bucky is a wraith in the darkness, the edges of him picked out in moonlight.  
“ _Zhavo mangel_ ,” he murmurs, his voice almost lost in the sound of the ocean around them.  
He turns away, moving on silent feet, and is gone.  
“I don’t know what that means,” Steve confesses, long after Bucky has gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so - what?  
> pani - water  
> baxt - luck  
> O ushalin zhalar sar o kam mangela - the shadow moves as the sun commands  
> zhavo mangel - I’m sorry


	6. The Maratha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I mean what I say,” Steve says a little more firmly. “I don’t know how we will manage without you.”  
> He see’s the line of Bucky’s shoulders stiffen in the moonlight, and he trips over his own tongue trying to fix it.  
> “I don’t mean… I’m not saying.” He stops and takes a breath. “I am sorry. For what I said.”  
> Bucky doesn’t move or even acknowledge Steve’s speaking, still and distant as a statue.  
> “I’m don’t regret the way I am, or how I feel. I just…” Steve is too tired and too worn to be anything but truthful. “I am sorry that it cost our friendship.”  
> There is nothing more to be said, so he rests his forearms on the rail and looks down at the ocean, the waves tinted silver and blue in the moonlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's hundreds, quite literally hundreds of characters in the MCU and not a damn one of them is Indian, so you gotta drag some poor soul over from Deadpool  
> Get your shit together MCU
> 
> The Coast of High Barbary is a classic shanty, you can see a glorious rendition of it [HERE](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=hDs4Zrd66TE)
> 
> Thanks to to Eidheann for kicking the words into order, and to Krycek for reading them  
> Special thanks to the Buttaneers. There's kissing, Trish, are you happy now?!
> 
> If you want to learn more about the Pirates and their ship, check out [olanordoskocheran](https://olanordoskocheran.tumblr.com)

Sam knocks on the door of the Great Cabin shortly after eight bells. He doesn’t wait to be invited in, knocking the door open with his hip, a mug of ale in one hand, a plate of salt pork and ship’s biscuit in the other.  
“You know I ain’t your damn maid,” he grumbles, slamming the plate down in front of Steve, who pushes it aside in favour of writing in his journal.  
“If you were I’d insist on getting you an apron,” Steve mutters, grabbing the mug of ale and drinking deeply.  
Sam snorts, helping himself to a slice of pork. The first few days Steve went into hiding, Sam had tried to coax him out with kindness. It had not gone down well. So now he needles. He pushes and provokes, anything to keep his Captain from fading before his eyes.  
And Steve is grateful, grateful beyond words. So he lets himself be riled, and pushes back, if only to see Sam reassured that there’s fight left in him.  
“What word from the crew?” Steve asks, marking his place in his journal and pushing it to one side.  
The map looks bare without its painted wooden models. There is a locked drawer in the desk filled with ships and sea monsters. Some days he doesn’t unlock the drawer and take them out, one by one.  
Most days he does.  
“We continue south in a big damn hurry, for whatever reason,” Sam perches on the edge of the desk and gives Steve a pointed look, sharp enough to draw blood. “Scott would like to inform you that it has been raining for eleven days, and he’s pretty sure he’s started growing gills.” Sam smirks. “Or mushrooms, from the smell of him.”  
“Well, make sure Clint doesn’t try to eat them,” Steve breaks off a corner of biscuit and dunks it into his ale. It’s tasteless, and feels like woodpulp in his mouth, but he forces himself to chew and swallow.  
“Anything else to report?”  
“They miss you.”  
The fragment of biscuit sticks in his throat, and Steve takes a sip of ale, avoiding Sam’s eye.  
“I’m serious,” Sam pushes the plate closer. “Ship needs its Captain.”  
Steve bites the inside of his cheek and takes another piece of biscuit.  
“And I’m sick of the Gyptian and his moping.”  
The biscuit shatters in Steve’s hand. For a moment he doesn’t move, then slowly pulls away from the plate.  
“I’m sure he’ll be fine.” Steve wipes his hand clean on the leg of his pants, aiming for nonchalant and failing.  
“He plans on leaving when we reach land,” Sam adds.  
“I’m well aware,” Steve picks up a piece of biscuit and eats it, chewing it dry and hard rather than talk anymore.  
“By the Pirate Code that makes him a deserter. He should be marooned on a deserted island with a musket and a single shot. Maybe a bottle of rum if you’re fond of the guy.”  
“He has been granted leave,” Steve snaps. “With all the shares of plunder he has earned in his time aboard ship.”  
Sam slips off the table wordlessly and turns for the door.  
Steve rubs his hand across his forehead. “I spoke out of turn,” he sighs. “I’m sorry, Sam.”  
“Not a problem, Cap.” Sam reaches over and gives him a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Do us all good to get a bit of time on land. Eat food that doesn’t taste of salt.” Sam raises his eyebrows. “Maybe find a pretty little something to keep you warm at night.”  
Steve reaches up and clasps Sam’s hand, giving it a tight squeeze before letting go. He doesn’t watch Sam leave, instead pulling his journal closer and flicking the pages until he finds his place, listening out for the soft sounds of the door opening and closing before he takes up his pen.

Steve pushes the journal away in frustration, though resists the urge to throw his quill across the room.  
He knows that Sam has a point. They have cargo to offload, and the crew needs time ashore. It is also true that in every port there are alehouses he could visit, he has done so before. Places where it’s not hard to find another man willing to make time with him.  
Whatever thrill might be gained from sneaking into a back alley with a stranger is somewhat marred when they turn their head and spit, and in the next breath ask how much silver their efforts are worth.  
Steve doesn’t begrudge the way another man might earn a living, not with the career he has chosen, but still.  
But still.  
He sighs and takes a piece of biscuit from his plate, dipping it into the dregs of his ale before chewing. He tugs the journal closer, turning to a fresh page and smoothing it down.  
The rain continues to fall, drumming against the stern windows. He dips his pen into the inkwell, and starts to draw. Calloused hands wrapped around frayed rope. Sun burnished hair drifting in the breeze like fronds of seaweed in calm, clear waters.  
Later he will tear out the page with every intention of throwing it in the fire, only to put it with the others in a drawer behind lock and key, a stack of torn sheets weighed down by a wooden boat.

Steve picks listlessly at what's left of his dinner, pushing the pieces of biscuit around on the plate. The scraps of pork had gone to el Gato when she had come scratching at the door in the night.  
As soon as she had chewed up the pieces of meat, dried up and curling at the edges, she had yowled to be let out again. Steve had waited in the doorway, watching her trot along the darkened corridor, tail held high, on the hunt for rats.  
The sun rises, the light filtering through the stern windows, and he debates going up on deck for some air before the crew start to rouse when there is a knock at the door. After a moment of waiting, the knock comes again.  
“Come in,” Steve says, shoving the plate to one side. Sam will no doubt grouse at him for not eating enough later.  
The door creaks open and the boy Peter pokes his head through before sidling into the room. He keeps one hand on the door, swaying slightly with the rocking of the ship.  
The boy has gained confidence during his time at sea. He is fast and sure-footed, climbing the rigging like a spider, but still gets tongue-tied in Steve’s presence.  
“What is it Peter?”  
Peter waves the arm not clinging to the door vaguely portside. “Ship on the horizon.”  
“A merchant ship?” Steve asks.  
Peter shrugs his shoulder. “It’s coming this way.”  
Steve nods, rolling down his sleeves as he gets to his feet, pushing the chair back under the table and grabbing his coat.  
“Alright,” he gives Peter a reassuring smile. “Let’s take a look.”

Steve trusts Peter’s judgement enough to send him off to shake Clint from his hammock, climbing up onto the deck to take a look for himself.  
There is, as Peter reported, a ship in the distance. Steve draws out his telescope and takes a closer look as  
Clint comes up onto deck and climbs up the lower shrouds. Steve waits until he’s in position before calling out.  
“Hawkeye, what the _hell_ is that?”  
The ship is like nothing he’s seen before. Two masted with a triangular lateen sail, but fast moving.  
Very fast moving.  
Clint swears loudly, and leans over the foretop. “I think… I think it’s a gallivat. Maybe a Grab?”  
Steve takes another look through the telescope. “A what?”  
“Only seen pictures. It’s Maratha, I think.”  
Steve snaps the telescope shut, striding over to the ship's bell and sounding the alarm.  
It takes less than a minute for all the crew to appear on deck, no doubt already awake thanks to Peter loudly rousing Clint.  
Bucky is there too, at the back of the gathering, half hidden behind Thor. His arms are folded across his chest as he chews his lip, gaze fixed somewhere to Steve’s right.  
He looks tired.  
The jagged glass in Steve’s chest shifts, slicing him a little deeper.  
“We are being pursued by another ship,” he announces.  
The crew react as Steve expects them to. Thor and Luis quick to insist that they can fight off any advances, Scott and Pietro immediately talk of outrunning them.  
“Hydra?” Bucky asks sharply.  
Steve shakes his head, and looks to the deck rather than risk catching Bucky’s eye. Or worse, trying to and failing.  
“It looks to be a Maratha ship.”  
“Say what?” Luis cocks his head to one side. “Mara-what now?”  
“Hindu warriors,” Bruce calls out. He snaps his mouth shut when the rest of the crew swivel around to stare at him. “What?” he grumbles, defensive.  
Steve approaches him hopefully. “You know about them?”  
Bruce shifts from foot to foot, glancing at the people surrounding him. “A little. They’re an empire ruling a large part of India.”  
“You said warriors. Can they be negotiated with?”  
Bruce shrugs, holding his hands out. “I don’t know. Their ships are fast though, they have oarsmen as well as sails.”  
Steve purses his lips. No wonder the ship was gaining on them. He looks around the crew, gathered around Bruce and Clint, trying to get more information from them. Bucky isn’t among the throng, choosing instead to go over to the rail and stare out at the approaching ship.  
Steve misses him, the pain of it sudden and sharp. Misses Bucky’s dry humour and sharp mind, his crooked smile and deep laugh.  
Steve looks up at the sails, pulled taut in the wind. Indian warriors. Not Hydra or the Dutch or the English.  
“Turn the ship about,” Steve says finally.  
He expects to be met with argument, but all his order gets him is a stunned silence.  
“We’re _stopping_?” Wanda yells.  
“We cannot outrun them,” Steve answers truthfully. “Let’s hope they are open to negotiation.”

The crew get to work trimming the sails while Clint unfurls the flag. No one fights the decision, or offers up an alternate plan. Steve isn’t sure if it is a good sign or a bad one. He doesn’t comment when each of the crew slip away to find themselves a weapon, from Peter up in the rigging with his catapult to Thor on the main deck with a boarding axe.  
It won’t help with negotiations, but Steve isn’t inclined to tell them to meet with a strange ship unarmed.  
No one returns to their beds, instead gathering in groups of twos and threes on the main deck. They play at being indifferent, but everyone is tense, on edge.  
The song starts unexpectedly, a few snatches of words before Thor takes up the singing, his rich voice carrying from bow to stern, lifting up into the sails so that even Peter and Wanda on the ratlines hear and join in. Perhaps the song even carries across the waves, to strike fear into the heart of the oncoming ship

_There was a gallant ship a-sailing on the sea  
Blow high, blow low, and so saw we  
And her Captain he was searching for a pirate enemy  
Down along the coast of High Barbary_

_Look ahead, look astern, look a-weather and a-lee  
Blow high, blow low, and so say we  
Aloft there at the masthead just see what you can see  
Down along the coast of High Barbary_

“Hold fast,” Steve orders as the Maratha ship pulls up alongside them. “And wait for my command.”  
The ship is painted in bold colours, its hull a deep, earthy red and its sails dyed a vibrant saffron yellow. Its crew are dressed in orange and yellow robes, their heads wrapped in strips of brightly coloured cloth. They throw ropes across the waters between the two ships, and the crew take them up, pulling until the red-painted hull nudges up against them.  
“Cap,” Luis hisses as the captain of the gallivat approaches, waiting as two of his crewmen place a wooden board down, connecting the two ships. “The guy’s wearing a dress!”  
Steve hushes him sharply, and steps forward.  
The captain is dressed in a long tunic, stained red and belted at the waist, and a pair of white trousers. The cloth wrapped around his head is the same red of his shirt. Tucked into his belt is a sabre. A handful of men cross with him, each one dressed in bright colours. Steve feels dull in comparison, holding his position as they climb down onto the deck, taking in the ragged-looking crew.  
The man raises both hands, elbows bent, and presses his palms together in front of his chest. “ _Namaskar_.”  
“Uh?” Steve looks over at Bruce, who shakes his head frantically.  
The captain looks offended, and places his hand on his sword. Before Steve can make a move Bucky is at his side, his sword drawn, the blade slicing into the air just to the front of where Steve is standing.  
The other captain’s men pull their weapons, but Bucky doesn’t flinch, his shoulders squared like he would take every last one of them down at the slightest provocation.  
Steve’s heart falters, then beats rabbit-fast. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and reaches forward, gently placing two fingers on the blade and pushing down, hoping that Bucky will understand and not hate him any more than he already does.  
Bucky’s gaze flits to him briefly before returning to the other captain, and he slowly lowers the sword, but doesn’t withdraw it. A compromise.  
It is a clear enough gesture for the captain to understand, and raises his hand to his men, who lower their weapons in turn. He looks amused, pointing to Bucky and chattering in a tongue unlike any Steve has heard before. It pitches high and low, as though he is singing rather than speaking. When Bucky doesn’t respond, he turns back to Steve, pointing to himself and his crew.  
Steve bites his lip. Unless someone does something stupid, they won’t all be slaughtered. But they won’t be doing much else either.

By midday most of the crew have gone to attend their duties, or gone back to their bed. Luis brings up fresh water and biscuit for Steve and the Maratha captain, having been warned by Bruce not to offer any ale or salted meat, lest it offend them.  
The Maratha captain seem happy enough to sit up on the aft deck once his men have been sent to fetch large cushions for them to sit upon. They are soft and richly embroidered with gold thread depicting elephants and dancing girls. Steve is offered a red cushion with little circles of mirrored glass stitched in between little embroidered animals. He perches on it awkwardly, his knees drawn up to his chin, while the Maratha lounge across theirs.  
Bucky sits to his left, a little way from the group, honing the edge of his hangar with a whetstone. Steve still hasn’t worked out what to do about his presence, what his being there means. He suspects that it is habit or self-preservation that keeps Bucky close, and does not give in to hope.  
After an extended pantomime of gestures and talking loudly and slowly to one another, Steve is more or less sure that the captain is called Dopinder. The captain in turn calls him ‘Steev’, and he is far too tired to object.  
Dopinder rolls up his sleeves and takes one of the pieces of chalk rolling around on the deck. The boards between them are covered in smudged drawings as both men try to make themselves understood.  
Steve watches as he draws another odd shape, then looks up at Steve, hopeful and expectant. Steve shakes his head, and Dopinder throws the chalk across the deck in annoyance. The man at his right swallows the last of his water, grimacing at the taste.  
“ _Panee_?” he asks, turning his cup upside down.  
Bucky looks up sharply. “ _Pani_?”  
The man nods, holding out his cup.  
“He wants more to drink, Bucky,” Steve says wearily. “That’s all.”  
Bucky rolls to his feet, sheathing his hangar and walking over to the rail. He points down to the sea below.  
“Pani?”  
The captain nods, curious. “Paanee.”  
Bucky waves his arm in a gesture encompassing the whole ship. “Bero.”  
Dopinder shakes his head, looking disappointed. Bucky isn’t put off, walking up and down the deck, looking for things to point to, while the Mathara shake their heads whenever Bucky speaks.  
When he runs out of things to name Bucky points to himself. “Me?”  
Dopinder points to him. “Tu?”  
Bucky grins and points at the captain and his crew. “ _Tume_.”  
“ _Tumhe_!” they answer.  
Bucky holds out both his arms, spreading them wide. “ _Ame_.”  
Dopinder turns to his men, nodding. “Hamen.”  
“Bucky, what’s going on?” Steve murmurs.  
Bucky points out a cut on his thumb from sword practice earlier in the day. “ _Rat_.”  
“ _Rakt_!” Dopinder shouts.  
Bucky tugs his hair, taps his nose, touches his tongue, each time uttering a word, and something similar is returned with increasing excitement.  
“Bucky,” Steve says again, a little louder.  
Bucky turns to him and grins, and for a moment Steve forgets how to speak.  
“ _Puri dai_ ,” Bucky begins, which gets him an answering shout from the Maratha, “My mother's mother? Said we came from east, long ago.”  
“You’re… Indian?” Steve frowns, searching Bucky's features for a trace of similarity between him and the Maratha captain.  
Bucky taps a finger to his own chest. “No. Gyptian.” He waves his hand in a circle, expressing the generations who came before him in a broad sweep. “They were… folki before us. Folki before them.”  
Steve stares as Bucky turns back to the Maratha and starts counting on his fingers. A better captain would give orders and start negotiations for trade, but Steve watches silently as the men nod enthusiastically and chip in with their own words. He drinks in the sight of Bucky’s smile, the ease of his laughter. Gossamer thin chains of silver wrapped around his heart that could so easily break.

“Hey, Cap?” Sam calls as he climbs up the steps to the aft deck.  
Steve glances over, gesturing for Sam to come closer before turning back to Bucky and the Maratha. Sam falls silent, coming to a halt at Steve’s side.  
Bucky is sat on one of the embroidered cushions with the Maratha, el Gato curled up in his lap. Dopinder chatters enthusiastically while Bucky nods attentively.  
“They understand each other?” Sam asks, his voice pitched up in surprise.  
Steve shrugs. “So it would appear.”  
Sam gives him a sharp look, and Steve feels slightly guilty for his poor humour. At first he had been thrilled that Bucky had found some connection with the Maratha. But the more he watched them sitting together, laughing and talking over each other, the more unsettled he became.  
Bucky was leaving. But Steve had held onto the hope in the months at sea ahead, when time had soothed harsh words and scarred over their wounds, that they might have spoken honestly with each other.  
He had no illusions that Bucky would change his mind, that he would stay, but he had hoped they could part in friendship.  
But it was clear that the Maratha had taken a shine to Bucky, and any captain would value his presence on their crew. He was hard working, fiercely loyal, and quick to learn. He would fit in well among them.  
Steve would not argue if Bucky decided to join the Maratha. Though it might break what was left of his heart to see Bucky sail away to an unknown shore.  
He can feel Sam watching him closely, reading him like the wind and weather.  
“He won't go with them.”  
Steve gives Sam a sharp glare. “What?”  
“Bucky,” Sam clarifies. “They’ll offer, because he’s a good sailor and they’re smart guys. But he’ll say no.”  
Steve watches as Bucky picks up a piece of chalk and starts drawing on the deck. “True. Hydra don’t trade in these waters.”  
Bucky would be safer with the Maratha. Safe from Hydra and Lord Pierce. But he’s never seemed that interested in being safe.  
“Sure,” Sam snorts. “That’s the reason.”

It’s well into the afternoon when Bucky finally turns and waves Steve over to join them, making a show of standing up and shaking out the cushion for Steve to sit on.  
Steve nods to Dopinder and his men, feeling slightly embarrassed as he tries to get comfortable. Bucky sits at his left, waiting until he’s as close as he’ll get to settled before speaking.  
“Dopinder wants to thank you for …” Bucky glances over at the smiling Maratha. “Something?”  
“Alright,” Steve gives them a wary smile, which seems to go down well.  
“He is in… uh… _kamav_?” Bucky puts his hand over his heart, palm pressed against his shirt.  
“Love?” Steve suggests.  
Bucky repeats the word under his breath. His accent has changed a little in the time he’s spent with the Maratha, become lower, richer. “There’s a girl, Gita. He wants to walk seven times around a fire with her and … give her some beads?”  
Dopinder pulls at his tunic, revealing a string of wooden beads around his neck, and smiles again, wide and happy.  
“Oh,” Steve says abruptly.  
The crew sing many songs. Some are short and fast, sung when hoisting the sails. Others are call-and-return, to rouse the tired and fire up the blood. And there are the ones sun late at night when everyone is sick of the taste of saltwater and hard biscuit, songs of great battles fought and loves lost. Songs of brave young men who take to the sea to earn his fortune, and the girls who waits for his return.  
“He’s earning his fortune,” Steve says. “So he can marry his sweetheart.”  
Bucky nods, something almost bittersweet in his eyes. “They want to trade. Food and pani for tobacco. There’s also…” Bucky makes a vague gesture. “Cloth? Silk, sailcloth, not sure which.”  
Steve glances over at the Maratha ship and it’s brightly coloured sails. “Either is good. Tell them we will trade, and I’ll trust you to handle negotiations.”  
Bucky looks surprised. “You do?”  
It stings far more than Steve would have expected it to. He gets up, giving Dopinder and his men a short bow.  
“There’s nothing I wouldn’t trust you with, Buck,” Steve blurts out. He turns away, resting his hands on his hips and looking at everything but Bucky’s wide eyed stare.  
Steve rubs his nose with the back of his hand. He feels so horribly awkward in the presence of the Maratha, a clumsy, dull coloured creature surrounded by vibrant, chattering birds. “Luis has some weapons to trade too, if they’re interested.”  
Bucky murmurs an assent, and Steve retreats, convincing himself that he isn’t running away, leaving them to their negotiations.  
He goes in search of Luis, rousing him from his hammock and sending him up to the aft deck with his cache of weapons.

Luis gets a good price for his hoard of weapons, lack of language being no barrier for him when there’s silver to be had. A handful of the crew stop work to watch his sales technique, laughing amongst themselves as he loudly extols the virtues of the cutlass and short sword over the rapier while the Maratha dance back and forth across the deck with the blades, swiping at each other playfully.  
Bucky oversees the trade, arguing a price for tobacco and sugar. In return they get food and fresh water for the journey ahead, along with brightly coloured cloth and compressed slabs of tea leaves.  
The Maratha are so pleased with the trade that, when the last barrel has been exchanged and they say their farewells their cook climbs on board and gifts Steve and his crew a cloth-wrapped stack of spiced flatbreads, buttery and still warm from the oven. It has been far too long since any of them ate fresh bread, and the instant Steve has unwrapped the parcel and the smell has wafted across the deck he is surrounded by jostling elbows and grabbing hands.  
Dopinder laughs as the crowd disperses, leaving Steve with a single round of bread. Even Bucky managed to sneak off with one, and is sitting on a tea chest, chewing on a herb-flecked crust.  
Steve wraps up his bread and sets it to one side, thanking the cook again for the gift.  
While the crew eat their bread, waving at the cook and calling out loud enough to make him blush and scurry away, Dopinder turns to Bucky and asks him a question. Bucky smiles and shakes his head, and the moment passes.  
Dopinder shrugs and turns back to Steve, holding his hands palm to palm and bowing slightly. “Namaskar,” he says solemnly.  
Steve returns the gesture as well as he can. “Namaskar.”  
He waits as Dopinder and his men cross the board connecting the two ships, and moves forward to help unfasten the ropes binding them together. Before long the Maratha ship is drawing away, its sails billowing in the wind.  
Steve waits until it is at a safe distance before he gives the order to set sail.  
Bucky dusts off his hands and climbs up to the aft deck, clambering hand over hand up the shrouds and onto the yardarm, waiting for the signal from Clint on the foremast before he unfurls the sail, the crew gathered below ready to pull on the ropes.  
Steve takes one last look at the Maratha ship in the distance. He breathes in deeply, checks his compass and takes the wheel.

At eight bells the crew go down to the Mess for dinner. Steve spends a few uncertain minutes on deck weighing up his options, before fixing the wheel in place with loops of rope and going down to join them.  
No one makes a fuss when he climbs down the ladder to the Mess, though he doesn’t miss the surreptitious glances sent his way, and he takes an empty seat opposite Sam.  
The conversation flows around him, old quarrels and new stories. Despite the successes of the day no one feels like celebrating, too full of good bread and warm ale to do much more than slouch at the tables and gossip idly while the night crew ready for work.  
When Clint falls asleep propped up against Nat’s shoulder Steve sends them to their beds, wishing them goodnight before climbing up the ladder to the main deck to fill his lungs with the cold air, a welcome respite after a long day in the stifling heat.  
The moon hangs low in the darkening sky, the stars pricking out one by one.  
Bucky seems to have had the same idea, climbing up onto the aft deck and leaning against the rail, staring out to sea.  
Steve knows he should leave well alone, but his feet don’t listen to reason, carrying him up the steps, his boots clicking softly on the worn wooden boards, announcing his approach.  
Bucky doesn’t turn around. Maybe if he had, Steve would have kept his mouth shut.  
“Did they ask you to go with them?”  
Bucky tips his head to one side. “Ava.”  
“But you said no.”  
Bucky doesn’t answer, and Steve risks moving closer, step by wary step until he reaches the railing.  
“Thank you,” Steve says as he grasps the curved wooden rail with both hands. “For today. The whole business could have ended very different, but you figured a way to get us clear.” The corner of his mouth twitches, though not upwards in a smile. “You always do.”  
Bucky makes a soft noise, dissenting.  
“I mean what I say,” Steve says a little more firmly. “I don’t know how we will manage without you.”  
He see’s the line of Bucky’s shoulders stiffen in the moonlight, and he trips over his own tongue trying to fix it.  
“I don’t mean… I’m not saying.” He stops and takes a breath. “I am sorry. For what I said.”  
Bucky doesn’t move or even acknowledge Steve’s speaking, still and distant as a statue.  
“I’m don’t regret the way I am, or how I feel. I just…” Steve is too tired and too worn to be anything but truthful. “I am sorry that it cost our friendship.”  
There is nothing more to be said, so he rests his forearms on the rail and looks down at the ocean, the waves tinted silver and blue in the moonlight.

“There was a bero,” Bucky begins.  
“There were many, one after the other. Never stayed on one for long, took off when we docked, found another one.” He sighs, the sound drawn out and sorrowful. “Pierce took everything from me. My _kumpania_ , my name. Made me a monster. Swore if I ran away that anyone who helped me, gave me work, sheltered me or fed me, would pay.”  
“You’re not a monster,” Steve says softly.  
“Thought I was. Thought I was for a long time.” Bucky’s mouth twists in a bitter smile. “But he was worse.”  
Steve wants to reach out, cross the space between them and offer comfort. He clenches his fists, nails digging into the palm of his hands. “There was a ship?”  
“There was. Kushti captain, you would have liked him. Fine crew, hard working and… loud.” Bucky smiles again, sad and fond. “Pierce found out, sent his mercenaries. They snuck up on us at night.” His grip on the rail tightens. “Could have let them live, taken me away and they’d be none the wiser. They torched the ship, left them to drown or burn in the middle of the ocean.” Bucky glances Steve’s way, his eyes bright, and blinks rapidly. “Keelhauled me when I tried to escape.”  
Steve remembers. Remembers finding Bucky chained up in the hold of a mercenary ship, the gashes and bruises on his body. Remembers the nights at Bucky’s side, dragging a wet cloth across his fevered brow.  
The back of Steve’s throat burns. “He’s dead,” he chokes out. “The man that did that to you. I killed him myself. He’s dead, they all are.”  
“Pierce isn’t.” Bucky shifts on his bare feet, inching closer. “I stay here, he’ll find me again, _te lel les o beng_. He’ll send his men, and I’ll have to watch you die.”  
“Bucky…”  
“ _Zhavo mange_ ,” Bucky says, finally turning to face him. “It’s not that I don’t… care. I can’t stay. I can’t.”

Steve’s heart pounds in his ribcage like a hammer, like the beating of a drum that should shake the decking apart.  
“Stay,” he says, taking a step towards Bucky, moving until there is barely a breath between them. “You think you’re putting us in danger by being here? We would be dead three times over if you weren’t!”  
Bucky shakes his head, but Steve presses on, not giving him the chance to argue.  
“If Pierce is going to come after you, let him come. If he wants you back so bad he’ll have to go through us first.”  
“Stevoske, _ashun mandi_ -”  
“Hydra will curse the day they ever crossed paths with me. We will be a thorn in their damned side, you hear me? I swear there will not be a trading post standing from Lagos and Boston by the time we are through. You’re one of us, Bucky.”  
“I’m not worth all this,” Bucky says softly.  
“Yes you are,” Steve says vehemently. “What you did all those years? It wasn’t you.” Steve throws his hand out to the ship, the sails and the rigging and the lapping of the waves. “This is you.”  
Steve doesn’t fight the urge to offer comfort this time, reaching out to touch a hand to Bucky’s shoulder, palm pressed against the scarred star under his shirt, to feel the warmth of him, even if it’s for the last time.  
“ _Stay_ ,” he pleads. “I promise you’ll never have to see me, that’s not what this is about. I’ll keep to the cabin, I’ll stay out of your way-”  
“Why would I want that?” Bucky asks, grabbing Steve by the front of his shirt and dragging him into a hard, open mouthed kiss.

Steve stumbles, falling forward as Bucky tightens his grip on the crumpled linen of his shirt, twisting it in his hands like it’s the only thing holding them both upright. Steve clings to his shoulder more by instinct than design as Bucky’s lips, dry and cracked from the salt and sea air, move over his, stubble rasping at his skin.  
Bucky shifts slightly, tilting portside, and their mouths fasten. His tongue darts out to flick against the roof of Steve’s mouth. Steve moans, a low reverberation that Bucky swallows down as the ship pitches underneath their feet. Bucky licks into Steve’s mouth again and pushes him backwards. They stagger across the deck, Steve hooking his arms around Bucky’s shoulders as neither one of them is willing to break the kiss and Bucky’s hands loosen, sliding down to Steve’s hips as he steers them both to the lower shrouds. He shoves Steve against the rope netting and presses up against him, gripping at the ropes stretched taut around them and using them as leverage.  
Every touch, every burning inch of skin pressed against him, lights Steve’s body on fire like a match to a trail of gunpowder. It snaps and fizzles across his skin, sending sparks down his spine and flares of light behind his eyelids. He pushes his hand into Bucky’s hair, curling his fingers around dark strands turned warm bronze by the sun and tugs, easing them both into a more comfortable position and suckling on Bucky’s tongue. His other hand cradles Bucky’s jaw, his thumb pressing the corner of his mouth before following down the line of his throat. Bucky hums, low and pleased, shoving his knee between Steve’s thighs and pressing his hip against his stiffening cock. Steve feels Bucky against his thigh, hot and hard and heavy.  
Steve can barely move, pinned to the rigging as Bucky starts to rock against him in a slow, filthy grind. He lets out a desperate whine, breaking the kiss and gasping for breath as Bucky mouths against his jaw, tugging the cord binding Steve’s hair back and letting the blond strands spill over his shoulders. Bucky sucks at the thin skin where jaw meets neck and moves down to nip at his collarbone. Steve moans, overwhelmed, pressing the flat of his hands to Bucky’s shoulders and stroking down his back. He lowers his head and buries his face in Bucky’s hair, breathing in the scent of him, musk and salt.  
Bucky lifts his head again, his pale eyes burning.  
“ _Kammava tu_ ,” he rasps before kissing Steve again. A little too rough, a little too desperate. Bittersweet like the taste of molasses.  
Steve cups the curve of Bucky’s skull in the palm of his hand, pressing as though there were an inch of space left between them left to fill, breath stuttering as Bucky shifts against him, pressing his cock to the crease of his thigh and rocking his hips. Steve groans and drags his hands down Bucky’s back, cupping the firm swell of the ass and squeezing.

Bucky pulls back, just far enough to break the kiss and no further, pressing Steve into the rigging hard enough for the knotted ropes to dig into his back.  
They both take a moment to breathe, dragging in great gulps of salt air as they stare at one another.  
“We should...” Steve says slowly, uncertain of how to continue.  
Bucky takes a step back, and Steve’s body aches from the loss of contact, the wind suddenly cold against his burning skin. Bucky sees the uncertainty in his eyes and reaches out, grasping his hand and tugging him along the deck. Steve follows, unsteady on his feet and half-drunk with kisses as Bucky leads him to the ladder down to the cabins. Putting a fingers to his lips and shushing when Steve begins to ask where they are going.  
They creep through the corridor, past the rooms where Sam and Bruce sleep, and to the Great Cabin.  
Steve stumbles over to the desk while Bucky gently pushes the door shut, sliding the bolt across with barely a sound. Steve turns to face him, leaning against the desk with a feigned air of casualness that Bucky doesn’t buy for an instant, stalking across the floor towards him.  
When Bucky is close enough, Steve reaches out, grabbing him by the shoulders and reeling him in for a kiss. Bucky smiles against his mouth, hands moving under Steve’s shirt and working their way upwards, rucking up the bleached cotton to under his armpits before breaking the kiss long enough to tug the shirt over his head and toss it to one side. Calloused, scarred hands move across Steve’s chest, mapping the swell of his muscles and the dip of his stomach while Steve paws at the wine-coloured linen covering Bucky’s back, tugging until Bucky huffs with amusement and strips off his shirt, letting it drop to the floor.  
Steve takes a moment to stare at Bucky. At the hard lines of his body, sculpted from hauling sails and climbing rigging. At the colour of his skin, darkened to earth tones in the sun.  
Bucky touches a finger to Steve’s chin, raising his head and meeting his eye. He smiles, warm and bright, crinkling the corners of his eyes.  
“You have…” he rubs his thumb and forefinger together. “ _Corat_?”  
Steve blinks slowly. “I’m sorry, what?”  
Bucky moves closer, close enough so their noses brush, and curls a hand around Steve’s waist, moving down and cupping his palm over Steve’s backside. He presses his fingers between the cleft of Steve’s ass, sliding them slowly up and down, and Steve’s right knee buckles. He grabs Bucky by the shoulders and lets out a sharp gasp. If he had all his faculties he would take offence to Bucky’s soft chuckle, but he can only think of staying upright as Bucky presses against his entrance through the wool of his pants in light, teasing swipes.  
“In-” Steve lets out a strangled noise as Bucky twists his wrist. “My cabin. The bed.”  
Bucky smirks, withdrawing and turning to the side door that leads from the Great Cabin to Steve’s quarters.  
Steve gasps for breath. He doesn’t feel loss this time as Bucky walks away, and is grateful for a moment to gather his wits again.

Bucky returns a minute later, carrying the glass jar that Steve keeps hidden under his mattress. Steve flushes at the sight of it, drawing his hands across his chest as Bucky unstoppers the jar and his smile turns sharp.  
“You use this?” Bucky asks slyly.  
Steve raises his chin defiantly. “Yes.”  
Bucky approaches him slowly, placing the jar carefully on the desk, leaving the lid to one side. “You think of me when you do?”  
Steve’s voice dies in his throat and he nods silently. Bucky brushes a hand across Steve’s stomach, feeling his muscles twitch and jump.  
“You use your fingers? Pretend like they’re mine?”  
Steve nods, his mouth too dry for words.  
“How many?” Bucky murmurs, brushing his lips against Steve’s throat. “ _Yek_? _Dun_?” He mouths  
at the curve of Steve’s shoulder, fingers moving in gentle circles.  
Steve shivers as Bucky grazes teeth along his collarbone. “Two.”  
Bucky hums, gripping Steve by the waist and dropping to one knee.  
“Buck?”  
“Shh,” Bucky chides softly, and slides his hand around the back of Steve’s knee, nudging it forward until he leans back, resting the flat of his hands on the desk as Bucky pulls off his boots, one after the other, pushing and pulling at him until he’s barefoot and leaning back against the desk.  
Bucky reaches up to the front of Steve’s trousers, pressing the palm of his hand against his cock and giving it a firm rub with the heel of his hand. Steve bites his lip, trying to be silent as Bucky unfastens his fly, popping the buttons one by one. Bucky pauses to look up at him, his expression so open and tender that Steve reaches down and cups Bucky’s face in his hand, thumb brushing against his cheekbone. Bucky turns his head and kisses Steve’s wrist, pressing his tongue to the vein there and feeling Steve’s heart race rabbit-fast.  
“Bucky,” Steve murmurs again, and shudders as Bucky grips his trousers by the waist and tugs them down his hips, leaving them bunched around his thighs. He wraps one hand around the base of Steve’s cock, thick and heavy in his hand, and strokes slowly from base to crown.  
Steve throws his head back, clapping a hand over his mouth to keep from moaning as Bucky leans in a licks a long stripe up the underside of the shaft, flicking his tongue over the head before working his way down again. He pauses, reaching for the jar of salve with his free hand and scooping up a little with two crooked fingers, and presses his mouth to Steve’s ballsack sucking gently as he reaches around and slips a finger along the cleft of his ass.  
Steve bites into the fleshy mound at the base of his thumb to keep from shouting, whining low in the back of his throat as Bucky sucks a line of open mouthed kisses along the length of his cock, pushing the head between his lips at the same moment he pushes his slick finger against Steve’s hole, easing it in to the first knuckle. Steve shudders, spasming around him as Bucky pushes in a little deeper before withdrawing, a steady push and pull as he bobs his head and swallows around Steve’s cock.  
Steve grips the edge of the desk, his breath coming in harsh, ragged pants as Bucky works a second finger into him, twisting his wrist as he pushes through the tight ring of muscle. Steve pulls his hand from his mouth, reaching down to grip Bucky’s shoulder and gasping when Bucky lets go of his cock long enough to grabs Steve’s wrist, moving his hand to the nape of Bucky’s neck. He gives the back of Steve’s hand a little push, as if to encourage him.  
Steve leans forward and threads the shaking fingers of his other hand in Bucky’s hair, but doesn’t guide his actions, torn between thrusting forward into Bucky’s mouth or back onto his fingers, so clings onto him like an anchor, like the only thing holding him steady in a stormy sea.  
Bucky doesn’t seem to mind his inaction, dragging two fingers across his prostate and easing in a third.  
Steve cries out, and Bucky pulls off his cock with a wet, sucking sound.  
“Shh.”  
Steve tugs at Bucky’s shoulders and gives him a challenging look. “Make me.”

Bucky kisses his way up Steve’s chest, pausing to take a taut nipple between his teeth and worry at it until Steve’s gasps turn sharp, then soothes the tender flesh with gentle laps of his tongue.  
Steve loses patience, cradling Bucky's face in his hands and tilting his head back for a kiss, rough and clumsy in his desperation. He thrusts his hips and their cocks slide together, smearing a trace of precome against Bucky’s stomach. He chases the sensation, desperate for friction as Bucky slowly works him open, his kisses sweet and deep.  
Steve can’t say how much time has passed when Bucky pushes at his shoulders, turning him around to face the desk. Eight bells could have rung twice over and he would be none the wiser. He splays his hands out on the painted wood between Norway and Canada as Bucky unfastens his trousers, reaching out to the jar of salve and slicking himself up.  
Bucky kisses the nape of Steve's neck, hands circling his waist. Steve reaches back, finding Bucky’s hip and pulling.  
“Bucky,” he rasps. “ _Please_.”  
Bucky hushes him, kissing his shoulder before taking hold of Steve’s ass with both hands and spreading his cheeks. He brushes his thumbs over the loosened ring of muscle, dipping them in, teasing. Steve curses and pushes back blindly, and Bucky grips his slick cock, rubbing the head over Steve’s entrance and slowly pushing in.  
Steve gasps and hunches over the desk, the sensation sharper than pleasure, sweeter than pain. His fingernails scrabble at the paintwork, flecks of blue gathering under his nails as Bucky pushes into him, deeper and deeper until their bodies are flush. Bucky holds still, his legs shaking with the strain, as Steve tries to catch his breath. He aches with sweet relief as he straightens up and rocks back, the shift of his body making Bucky curse.  
“Shush,” Steve manages with a hoarse chuckle.  
Bucky growls, pulling almost all the way out and punching in again with a sharp snap of his hips that has Steve’s hands skidding across the desk. Bucky pulls back and does it again. Again. Again, as Steve braces himself and pushes back, meeting every thrust. The air fills with low, staccato breaths as every stroke forces the air out of Steve’s lungs, and he gasps in time with the slap of skin against skin.  
Steve reaches back again, his hand sliding along Bucky’s hip and resting at the base of his spine, feeling the flex of his muscles, the draw and pull of his thrusts. Bucky nuzzles at the nape of his neck, one hand on Steve’s hip as the other runs up his chest to rest over his heart. Steve turns his head, gasping as Bucky nips at his jaw, his tongue darting out to lap at the corner of Steve’s mouth.  
Steve doesn’t realise he’s making sound until Bucky brings two fingers up to his open mouth, hooking them over his teeth. Steve closes his mouth around them, sucking hard, hard enough to make Bucky groan and his rhythm falter. He reaches around and takes Steve’s cock in his hand, his fingers slick with salve, and Steve comes almost instantly, spilling across the Bay of Biscay. He clenches around Bucky, feeling the moment he shivers and comes, biting into the meat of Steve’s shoulder to keep from crying out.

Bucky slumps against his back, and Steve’s thighs tremble, knees threatening to give way. He leans over the desk, bracing against the scratched wood and supporting their weight. After a moment Bucky kisses the bite mark on his shoulder and murmurs an apology as he straightens up. Steve pines for the weight of Bucky against his back once it’s gone, and has a sudden urge to ask him to stay right where he is, buried inside Steve, just for a little while. Bucky kisses the tender skin behind Steve’s ear.  
“Not all that comfortable,” he says softly.  
Steve lets out a weak groan. “I said that out loud?”  
Bucky doesn’t answer, just sighs and rests his cheek against Steve’s shoulder.  
Steve looks down at his map, scratched and soiled, and his heart thumps painfully in his chest. Maybe it will be different. Maybe Bucky won’t ask for money, or walk away without a glance back. He seems content where he is, pressed against Steve’s back, his fingers stroking up and down Steve’s ribs.  
Bucky sighs, easing his cock free and tucking himself away, tugging up his trousers and fastening the buttons. Steve feels open and empty without Bucky inside him, his bare skin chilled from the loss of his warmth and weight. He startles when Bucky gives his cock a gentle squeeze and tugs his trousers up from where they’ve bunched around his knees. Steve’s fingers are shaking too hard to button up himself, and Bucky reaches around him, chest firm against Steve’s back, and works each button into place. He doesn’t move once the last button is in place, keeping his hands wrapped around Steve’s waist, chin resting on his shoulder.  
Steve clears his throat, trying to think of some way of drawing things out, delaying the inevitable talk.  
“Perhaps…” he pauses, clears his throat again. “Perhaps an ale before you go?”  
Bucky snorts, a soft huff of breath against his ear. “Ain’t going.”  
Steve’s troublesome heart forgets how to beat, stumbling before pounding in double-time.  
“You’re not?”  
Bucky grins, and that jagged chunk of ice in Steve’s throat melts with the heat of it. Whatever hurt that remained soothed away as Bucky smears a trail of kisses across Steve’s back, light and tickling. Bucky works up to his throat as Steve tilts his head back to offer up more skin, turning in Bucky’s arms until they are pressed chest to chest. Bucky scrapes his teeth across the juncture where neck and shoulder meet, sucking a bruise into Steve’s honeyed skin. It’s territorial, possessive, and makes Steve’s spent cock twitch in interest. He grips Bucky’s hair, winding the strands around his fingers more to keep him in place than make him stop.  
“Ain't done with you,” Bucky’s mouth burns against his throat. “Want to see you spill again before eight bells.”  
With that, Bucky wrenches himself away, stepping back with a sly grin and snatching up the jar of salve from the desk. He turns and strolls towards Steve’s cabin, pausing in the doorway for the second it takes for Steve to come to his senses and follow after.

Steve wakes in an empty bed, the daylight filtering through the porthole in the ship's hull directing the sun into his eyes.  
He stretches, his legs tangled in the blankets and groans, feeling sore all over. There is an ache, deep and sweet inside him, and bruises along his hips and inner thighs where Bucky’s hands had been. He rubs his neck, feeling the raised skin of his throat where Bucky had sucked and bitten until he was left with a ring of roses around his neck. He had called them that, in the hour after dawn when Bucky had kissed each blossom and murmured apologies. Bucky had laughed and sung ‘Blood Red Roses’ to him, his voice barely above a whisper, before leaving for his duties on deck. He had kissed Steve goodbye and ordered him to get more sleep, tugging the blankets around him tenderly.  
Steve yawns and savours every ache and bite and bruise, kicking off the covers and climbing out of the high sided cot. Bucky has left a pitcher of water and a washcloth for him, and he pours it into a basin and cleans himself up, flinching a little at the cold water.  
He dresses carefully, finding a clean shirt and pulling it on before heading out to the Great Cabin in search of his boots, kicked under the oak desk. He pauses over the map, rubbing a thumb over the scratch marks and deciding to keep them. He fetches the washcloth and restores honour to the Bay of Biscay, wringing out the cloth before tipping the basin of water out of the stern window.  
When he’s made himself presentable he climbs up the ladder to the aft deck. It’s a fine day, with light clouds scudding across the sky and a strong wind carrying them south.  
Sam is at the wheel, he turns and gives Steve a nod in greeting, his expression brightening when he gets a closer look at Steve’s face.  
“Hey Cap,” Sam smirks. “Well rested?”  
Steve blushes, which only makes the marks on his throat darken.  
“That’s enough, Sam,” Steve huffs. “Back to your post.”  
“Sure thing,” Sam steps back from the wheel. “You need a stool? Nice soft cushion-”  
“That’ll be all, thank you,” Steve answers primly.  
Sam roars with laughter and climbs down to the main deck, no doubt going off to spread the word and collect whatever betting pool the crew had on their Captain.  
Steve doesn’t take offense, they’re the finest crew he could ask for.

There is movement in the sails above him, and he looks up to see Bucky climbing down the shrouds, landing lightly on the deck. He approaches with carefully feigned nonchalance, hands folded behind his back.  
“ _Kushti divvus_ ,” he says softly, the corner of his mouth twitching up like he can’t help himself.  
Steve’s mouth stretches into a crooked little smile. “Morning.”  
The smile draws Bucky closer until he is within arms reach, a silent invitation. Steve doesn’t hesitate, reaching out to grab Bucky’s shirt sleeve and reel him in, wrapping an arm around his waist and pressing their foreheads together. Bucky rests his hand, warm and solid, over Steve’s heart, tapping his finger in time to its beat.  
“Drago,” Bucky murmurs, and Steve doesn’t know the word. But he understands the tilt of Bucky’s head, the way his eyes sparkle as he brushes their lips together, his kisses darting and bright, like the flashing of silver fish in sunlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> te lel les o beng - may the devil take him  
> ashun mandi - listen to me  
> kammava tu - I love you  
> corat - oil  
> Kushti divvus - good morning


	7. Shore Leave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky pulls him close again, arms warm and heavy across his shoulders. And Steve has nothing left to fight with, so lets himself be held.  
> “Ain’t on you,” Bucky whispers in his ear. “Not every bad thing that happens is your doing.”  
> Steve grasps the back of Bucky’s shirt, gripping it like a man drowning. “Sometimes it feels like it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "This chapter will have smut, I said to [Trish](http://frau-argh.tumblr.com) tell me what you want to read.  
> Beach sex, the Trash Unicorn replied. Then there was a lot of screaming and flailing of arms  
> Eidheann made sure everyones hands went where they were supposed to, and Ktycek sent me pictures of ships  
> Special thanks to the Buttaneers, nothing but trouble those two 
> 
> If you want to learn more about the Pirates and their ship, check out [olanordoskocheran](https://olanordoskocheran.tumblr.com)

Sam knocks on the door of the Great Cabin and pushes it open, glancing up at Steve sat at the desk before looking back down at the papers in his hand.  
“Morning, Cap,” he shuffles the scraps of parchment around, trying to get them into some kind of order. “We should reach land late afternoon if the wind stays in our favour. I’ve got a list here of supplies wanted.”  
Sam looks up again. Steve hasn’t made a sound, and usually talk of spending money makes him grouse a little, even if it’s mostly for show. But instead he sits quietly at the desk, his journal open in front of him and, for once, Bucky is nowhere to be seen.  
“Our jolly Boatswain has a list as long as my arm here. Salt, oil, cured meat, biscuits. Nothing unreasonable.” Sam drops the parchment covered in Thor’s blocky, jagged handwriting on the desk. “Bruce says we’re running low on pitch and flax, and asks again about hauling the Shield up onto shore so he can do some proper repairs, not just running about below deck plugging up holes.”  
Sam gives Steve an expectant look. He’s still staring down at his journal, the palms of his hands pressed flat on the open pages, smearing ink across the dense lines of text. His complexion is oddly pale but for blotches of colour high on his cheeks and his exposed throat.  
“The crew’s getting pretty excited about going ashore. Running around getting dolled up instead of doing their jobs.” Sam sniffs.  
Going ashore is a rare thrill for the crew, and most of them dress up in their best, brocaded coats and leather shoes with polished buckles, usually stolen from unfortunate merchants.   
Steve’s fingers spasm, and he tears through a page in his journal.  
“Luis is dressed up in a red velvet number. Got a hat with so many damn feathers in it the guy looks like he’s got a damn bird nesting on his head,” Sam snorts. “Clint’s in the mess right now taking a _bath_."  
There is a dull thunk from under the desk. Like something striking against the underside.   
Like someone hit their head.  
Steve’s face manages to turn both paler and redder, and there is a soft, muffled grunt from between his knees.  
Sam freezes, and is suddenly, horribly aware of a wet, rhythmic sound. He shakes himself and points an accusing finger at Steve. “I hate you.”  
Steve has the decency to look contrite as Sam throws the scraps of papers on the desk. Not very contrite.  
“It’s bad enough when you two are at it all night,” Sam growls, stomping to the door and pulling it open.  
Steve flinches when it slams shut, and the sound of Sam's complaining that he plans on sleeping at the other end of the ship from now on, gets fainter but doesn’t fade completely.  
Steve slumps back in his chair and reaches down to his lap to push shaking, ink-stained fingers into Bucky’s hair.

Sam sulks as the ship skirts along the coast of Florida, while the rest of the crew dress up for their first trip ashore in far too long.   
Luis has indeed got himself a red velvet outfit of matching frock coat, waistcoat and knee-length trousers, topped off with the feathered hat. He looks like a cardinal bird. The rest of the crew look plain in comparison, but still make an effort, polishing the buckles of their shoes and fussing over their hair. Thor spends the morning combing out his long, golden hair, carefully braiding and twisting into a complex design held in place with gold pins. Steve wonders when his battle-hardened crew had suddenly become a cluster of peacocks preening their feathers. In Luis’ case, quite literally.  
Clint comes sloping up on to the deck dressed in leather trousers and a waistcoat embroidered with chevrons. He glares at anyone who’s gaze lingers on his for more than a few seconds and climbs up the shrouds to the foretop, where he fidgets so much Steve half expects him to tumble into the sea.   
Wouldn’t that be something, Hawkeye, who can hold his post in the worst storms, taking a swim on a mild and sunny day.  
“You think he’s alright up there,” Bucky breathes in Steve’s ear, making him jump. “Or you want me to go up with a _bitty_ rope and tie him down?”  
Steve chuckles. “I don't think he’d appreciate that.”  
Bucky rests his chin on Steve’s shoulder, arms wrapping loosely around his waist. He doesn’t have finery like other members of the crew, but he looks handsome in the plain white kurta that Dopinder had gifted him, a long sleeved collarless shirt with a short row of buttons at the throat. Bucky leaves all but one of the buttons unfastened, revealing a tantalising glimpse of his collarbones. His hair is washed and combed, and tucked neatly behind his ears, and Steve thinks that he has never looked more beautiful.  
“Enough with the _deekin_ ,” he whispers. “You’ll make the Quartermaster mad.”  
Steve gives him a sly grin. “Can’t help it if I like what I’m seeing.”  
Bucky huffs and gives him a gentle poke in the ribs. “You think he’s gonna crack?” He looks up at the rigging, where Clint chews on his thumbnail.  
“Yeah,” Steve sighs. “Only so long a man can hold his tongue in these matters.”  
Bucky brushes his lips against the nape of Steve’s neck, a brief touch that barely registers before it’s gone. Steve risks Sam’s ire by pressing his palm to the hand at his waist, lacing their fingers together and squeezing gently.  
“Trim the courses,” he murmurs. “We’ll drop anchor and row to shore.”  
“Ava,” Bucky slips from his grasp, and goes to pass on the orders.

One by one the sails are drawn up and fastened to the yardarms, and the ship slows to a crawl. Steve and Bucky work the windlass and drop the anchor just off the coast in the shallows. Scott and Luis grumble about having to row so far, but get to work winching the lifeboat down to the water.  
The crew gather on the deck, awaiting orders, jostling each other and pulling at the feathers in Luis’ hat.  
“Alright, settle down,” Steve calls out. “We need someone to stay behind and tend to the ship. Do I have volunteers, or do I have to pick one of you?”  
The crew fall silent, and Bucky has to cough loudly to hide his snigger.  
Steve sighs. Of course no one wants to stay. “Alright, Peter. You’re up.”  
Peter lets out a little whine of disappointment. “Aww, Cap.”  
Steve shakes his head. It’s probably best that the kid stays clear of Stark Island. For all the boy’s insistence that he’s not a kid, Steve will not hear the end of it if he gets killed in a bar fight. Or drunk in a bar. Or takes up dice.  
“Anyone else?” Steve asks, looking around.  
Sam huffs and steps forward. “Fine, I’ll stay.” Steve opens his mouth to argue but Sam glances to the rest of the crew with a smirk. “Could use a break from you two anyway.”  
Steve fights a blush while the crew have a good laugh. Bucky as loud as any of them.  
“And I plan on scrubbing down every last inch of this damn ship with salt,” Sam adds in an undertone.  
Steve rubs the palm of his hand down his face and tries to control his expression.   
“Yes. Fine.” He offers Sam a lopsided smile. “I’ll send word by morning.”  
“Damn right you will,” Sam says firmly, and Steve is painfully grateful for his Quartermaster.

One by one they climb down the side of the ship, using the winching ropes to support themselves as they clamber into the boat. Wanda and Pietro huddle together at the back, leaning over the side to dip their hands into the warm water and watch the Manta rays swimming below.  
Luis sweats and huffs as he pulls on the oars, but refuses to take off his heavy velvet coat. When a strong gust of wind threatens to take his hat he passes it along to Nat, sat at the prow with Steve and exempt from rowing duties, for safekeeping. Luis grumbles amiably when the Master Gunner tries it on for size, but pulls on the oars with the rest of them.  
They draw away from the ship, Sam and Peter waving as they depart, and cut through the waves towards land.  
“So this is a Pirate town we’re going to?” Pietro asks warily, keeping one eye on his sister as she leans over the side of the boat.  
Steve can understand his concern, especially towards his sister. A young woman would hardly be safe in a pirate town, no matter how proficient she was with a sword.  
“Not exactly. The whole island is owned by one man. He’s a shipbuilder, a good one too. He did work on the Star & Shield, sheathed and caulked the hull, set her up for long voyages.”  
“Yeah, I’ll be sure to thank him,” Scott grumbles.  
Steve lets the remark slide. “It’s a privately owned island that is visited by a wide variety of traders, some of whom might be pirates. The Americans turn a blind eye to it in exchange for ships.”  
Bucky glances up sharply. “He work for Hydra?”  
Steve shakes his head, and leans forward to brush his knuckles across Bucky’s thigh reassuringly.  
“He’s an independant contractor. Doesn’t care much for Hydra.”  
Bucky turns his attention back to the oars, looking mollified.  
“So he is a friend?” Wanda looks up from the rays circling the boat.  
“He’s an asshole,” Scott huffs, earning himself a scolding look from Steve.  
“That’s enough, Lang,” Steve says firmly. “He’ll buy our cargo with no questions asked and resupply the ship. That’s likeable enough.”  
“My boy Scotty’s got a point there, Cap,” Luis pipes up. “I mean the guy is a genius, seriously. I ain’t never gonna figure out how he can take wood and iron and just, like, change the curve of the keel or the height of a mast and boom! Your ship is faster. But all that smart in his head kind of pushes out the basic courtesy, you know what I’m saying?”  
“He owns an island, he doesn’t need to be polite. Is that what you mean?” Pietro asks.  
“He ain’t so bad,” Bruce says. “Just has a certain way about him.”  
“I find his company quite pleasant,” Thor doesn’t even need to pause for breath as he pulls on his oar.  
“Yeah, but you’d find a shark gnawing on your leg pleasant company,” Luis says. Thor lets out a great shout of laughter, and claps Luis on the back hard enough to knock him off his seat.

The harbourmaster, a good natured soul, barrel-chested and even tempered, hurries up to meet them when they reach port, Thor and Bruce climbing out first to tie the boat securely and hold it steady while the rest of the crew climb onto the sturdy wooden gangway. Thor reaches into the boat and picks Wanda up, setting her gently on the boards.  
“Hold fast there, little one. It’s been a time since you’ve walked on land,” he tells her, keeping one arm on her shoulder as she wobbles slightly.  
Steve leaves the boat last, accepting the hand up from Bucky with a soft smile, his touch lingering as Steve turns to the Harbourmaster and holds out his other hand. “Happy? It’s good to see you.”  
Happy puffs up a little and gives Steve’s hand a shake. “Captain Rogers! Long time no see. A really long time.”  
Steve gives him a flat look, and Happy clears his throat. “Let's get you signed in then, shall we?”  
“I trust you’re well?” Steve asks politely as Happy leads the way along the boards.   
“No rest for the wicked,” Happy answers, giving the gathering at Steve’s heels a curious look. “Got some new faces, I see?”  
Steve hums noncommittally as they reach a cabin on the edge of the docks that serves as the Harbourmasters office. Happy makes a note in his ledger of the ship's name, counting out the crew present and marking it down. They mill around outside muttering in low tones about places to lose money and get drunk while Bucky lurks in the doorway, watching as Steve lists the goods available to trade and haggles over prices.  
They finally come to an agreement and shake hands. “You drive a hard bargain, Rogers,” Happy sighs. “You want me to organise boats out to collect or are you bringing her in?”  
Bruce clears his throat loudly, and Steve lifts a hand in acknowledgement. “We’ll bring her onto the beach in the morning. Have your men ready to unload the cargo then.”  
“You got repairs that need seeing to?” Happy asks with a gleam in his eye.  
Steve cuts him off quickly. “Nothing we can’t take care of. Though we’ll take lumber and caulk.”  
“You sure?” There is a wheedling tone to Happy’s voice. “I’ve got a hardworking team, good prices-”  
Bucky growls softly, and Happy stutters into silence.  
“I’ll send Bruce over tomorrow to place an order. If we need assistance we’ll be sure to ask,”   
“You’ll be staying with us for long?” Happy puffs up, no doubt ready to offer them rooms to board in at a reasonable price.  
“No more than a week, then we’ll be on our way.” Steve pats him on the shoulder and pushes his way out of the cabin, Bucky stepping back to let him by.  
Happy fidgets with his ledger, sweat pricking on his brow. “You still need to see Tony. He’s working on his boat today.”  
Steve stills, then slowly turns to fix Happy with a stare.  
“You know the rules, Rogers. Tony doesn’t let a ship on his island until he’s looked it’s captain square in the eye.”  
“I have looked him square in the eye,” Steve hisses.  
“That was before.” Happy says with a shrug, but looks like he dearly wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole. “Some Hydra bigwig was sniffing around, looking for some missing property.” Happy cringes under Steve’s glare. “He’s gotta be sure.”  
Steve pauses briefly, gritting his teeth and forcing himself to relax.  
“Alright then, we’ll see Tony.”  
Steve dismisses the rest of the crew, giving them a few hours to stay out of trouble before meeting up again later. Scott and Luis offer to give the twins a tour of the island, promising to keep them out of trouble. Thor wishes them well and drags Bruce away in search of a tavern, and it’s only then that Steve realises Clint and Nat have already skulked away.   
Bucky raises his eyebrows and cocks his head to one side, making Steve snort.  
“Come on then,” he says. “Let’s get it over with.”

They walk side by side along the seafront, Bucky keeping a little distance between them, enough so that they don’t draw attention from passers by. The town just inland is a riot of noise, bars with their patrons spilling out onto the street, gambling dens, and stores selling supplies. Hawkers and traders wander up and down the street, shouting their wares of rum and soap and meat pies.  
Steve leads Bucky away from the cacophony and down along the beach. As the sound of laughter and singing and bursts of ill temper fade away they come in sight of the Shipyard.  
It occupies the entire length of the leeward side of the island, the Florida coastline barely visible in the distance. The great carcasses of three ships are lined along the sand, propped up by a supporting structure of beams and wooden platforms lashed together. Shipwrights climb the scaffolding, hammering timbers into place along the exposed ribs of the ships hulls. On the sand there are men gathered around the ships, cutting whole tree trunks into sections with long saws, a man at each end of the serrated blade taking turns to pull.  
They watch for a while, shoulders pressing together, until the pounding of hammers and the creak of timbers makes Steve head ache. Bucky notices the tension around his eyes and give him a gentle shove, insistent little touches until Steve starts walking again.  
The beach curves around to a secluded area away from the main shipyard. There is a white stone manor house on a hilltop overlooking the sea, and below it a private dock, tucked away from the port town.  
There is a solitary figure on the sand working on a boat. A caravel, small and shallow keeled, with tall, triangular lanteen sails. It looks like it could hold a dozen people at most.  
“This is your Shipwright?” Bucky asks softly. He doesn’t look doubtful, more curious at the disparity between the line of warships and merchant vessels they passed along the beach and this little craft.  
Steve nods, watching as the man takes a step to admire his handiwork.   
“He gonna be trouble?”  
Steve doesn’t answer. Stark glances around and spies them, raising a hand in greeting.  
Steve squares his shoulders and inhales sharply through his nose. “Come on,” he mutters, and strides across the sand, Bucky close at his heel.

“Steve Rogers? Never thought I’d see your face again,” Stark says brightly.   
Stark is dressed like the shipwrights they passed on the beach, loose fitting trousers and a well worn shirt. His hair and beard are neatly trimmed, and he moves with restless energy, waving a hammer in right hand that he throws into the air and catches over and over again.   
“That carpenter still with you? Banner. Or is he dead too?”  
Steve twitches, but keeps his expression impassive. “Yes, Bruce is still one of my crew.”  
“I like that guy,” Stark turns to Bucky, curious. “You tell him that job’s still on the table. If he ever gets bored of running away, that is.”  
Steve nods, his voice cold. “I’ll pass that along.”  
Stark tosses his hammer from hand to hand and uses it to point at Bucky, who drops the palm of his hand to the pommel of the hangar at his side, but doesn’t draw the blade.   
“Who’s the new guy?” Stark takes a step closer. “Have we met? I feel like we’ve met.”  
Bucky bares his teeth. “No.”  
Stark takes a step back. “You sure? Because you look really familiar. You been on the crew long?” Stark wanders over to a workbench and drops the hammer with a clatter. Picking through the tools and taking up a plane. “Your Cap here ever tell you what happened to the old crew, huh?” He gives Steve a sour look. “Or did it slip your mind?”  
Bucky doesn’t answer.   
Tony sucks air through his teeth. “Gotta say I’m impressed you’re finding new guys, Steve. After the shit that went down in New Providence-”  
Steve’s calm facade cracks. “That’s enough, Tony.”  
Stark gives Steve a sharp look and rests his hip against the workbench. “You familiar with New Providence?” He directs the question to Bucky, who nods silently. “Woah, now aren’t you a chatterbox? Yeah, nice little place in the Bahamas, a lawless nest of pirates and ne’r-do-wells slap bang in the trade route between Europe and the West Indies.”  
Steve bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood.  
“Your good Cap here was fond of the place, as were a bunch of other scallywags,” Tony drops the plane on the bench and crosses his arms. “Only the British Crown wasn’t too happy about it, so sent three warships to take control of the island. Installed a new Governor who didn’t take kindly to pirates.”   
“So your Cap here shows up with a ship full of plundered goods and meets the full wrath of King George and his men.”  
Steve opens his mouth to say something, say anything to make Stark stop talking, but no sound comes out.  
“How many men di-”  
There is the sharp sound of steel being drawn, and Bucky has his hangar drawn and at Stark's throat, his other hand gripping the front of Stark’s shirt, pushing him back against the workbench. Stark’s hands skitter over the bench, grasping for a weapon and knocking tools to the floor in his panic.  
“Bucky,” Steve calls out, his voice low and oddly calm.  
Bucky draws back, releasing his grip on Stark and letting his sword drop to his side. Stark slips to the ground, his back against the bench as Bucky retreats, positioning himself just in front of Steve, his sword down and flicked out to the side.  
Stark regroups quickly. “Hell of a guard dog you got there, Rogers.”  
Steve reaches out to rest a hand on Bucky’s arm in silent reassurance. Bucky glances at him, acknowledging the contact before sheathing his blade.  
Stark grins as he gets to his feet, the cocky swagger slowly returning. “Oh, I see how it is. All this time I figured you had a stick up your ass, and all you really needed was _your_ stick up-”  
Bucky lets out a low, warning sound, and Stark holds his hands up, placating.  
“Hey, what two guys get up to at sea is no business of mine. Really. No details needed thanks.” He flaps a hand at them. “Go away now, Daddy’s tired.”  
Steve needs no further excuses and turns away. Bucky stays where he is for a moment, watching Stark closely, ignoring the way Steve huffs impatiently.  
“I know I’ve seen you before,” Stark says to Bucky, putting his tools back in order.  
Bucky’s gaze shifts around the work area, choosing his words carefully. “Was here a while back. May have…” He cups his hands together and suddenly pulls them apart, fingers splaying, a puff of air escaping his lips.  
Stark’s mouth drops open. “You’re Mad Dog Buchanan.”  
Bucky nods, a smile touching the corner of his mouth, and returns to Steve’s side.   
They walk down to the beach and do not look back.

The walk in silence, following the shoreline to the windward side of the island, looking out to the Gulf of Mexico as the sun sinks down the sky. Bucky doesn’t push or question, and keeps close to Steve’s side, one one hand to the small of his back. They find a secluded stretch of beach, and Bucky leads them down to the water, dipping his bare feet into the shallows. The tide ripples along the sand, splashing at Steve’s boots, and at Bucky’s insistence he tugs them off and rolls up his trousers, and joins him in paddling.  
There is movement in the water up ahead, and a manta ray breaches the surface, leaping into the air before crashing back down again. Bucky slaps Steve’s arm to get his attention, pointing to the where the sea is stained red and gold by the setting sun. Steve lets out a shout when the ray leaps out of the water, flipping in the air and diving back down.  
Bucky starts moving towards the rays, pulling Steve along with him,water soaking his trousers up to the knee where he hasn’t bothered to roll them up. Steve keeps a little inland, still holding on but warying of ruining his clothes. Bucky chuckles and wades out further, pulling and tugging until Steve finally stumbles forward, seawater up to his hips. He holds on to Bucky tightly, arms around his waist. _For balance_ Steve tells himself as Bucky drapes an arm around his shoulder.  
The rays swim closer, a dozen or more of them, and circle around them, lifting their fins and splashing water. Bucky laughs and reaches out, fingers brushing over slippery skin before the ray wheels around, moving out of reach.  
Steve cups Bucky’s chin in the palm of his hand and kisses him. It’s not the desperate, frantic kisses of their first days together, nor is it the slow, lingering kisses they share in the early hours before eight bells. It is brief and brushing, and filled with all the things Steve cannot quite put into words.  
The sun dips into the water, and they wade back to shore to rescue Steve’s boots, and return to the tide, letting the waves wash across their bare feet.

“We had been seven months at sea,” Steve says suddenly.  
Bucky turns away from the sunset, and curls his fingers to the palm of Steve’s hand. He doesn’t say a word, but nods as Steve links their fingers together and squeezes.  
“Nassau was a good place to trade. Close to the shipping routes, like Stark said.” Steve sighs, bone deep and weary. “I must have missed something. Some clue or warning or…. I don’t know, something.”  
“Ambush,” Bucky says softly. There is no question in his tone.  
“Lost more than half the crew. Those that were taken they hanged. Gallows facing out to sea so we could watch. The rest of us threw ourselves into the sea and swam for the ship.” He rests his head on Bucky’s shoulder and feels gentle lips against his brow. “Not all made it aboard.”  
Steve screws his eyes shut and feels the prickle of water, turning his face to Bucky’s shoulder.  
“I failed them,” he mutters, voice muffled against Bucky’s shirt.  
Bucky strokes his back, a line of warmth sweeping from the base of his spine to the nape of his neck.  
“Stevóske,” Bucky breathes. “Did you fight?”  
Steve catches his breath in a pained swallow. “Yes. Yes, of course. When it was clear we were outnumbered I sent the survivors to the sea. Luis and Thor stood with me, held off the attack as long as we could.”  
“Got them to safety?”  
“The sea isn’t _safe_ ,” Steve spits. "They drowned. They serve aboard the Flying Dutchman, and will serve a hundred years or more before they find peace.”  
“You let them? You swim past and watch them sink?”  
“No, of course not!”  
Steve straightens up, ready to argue, but Bucky pulls him close again, arms warm and heavy across his shoulders. And Steve has nothing left to fight with, so lets himself be held.  
“Ain’t on you,” Bucky whispers in his ear. “Not every bad thing that happens is your doing.”  
Steve grasps the back of Bucky’s shirt, gripping it like a man drowning. “Sometimes it feels like it.”

They walk hand in hand along the water’s edge, the warm waves lapping over their feet. Out on the water, they can see the Star & Shield, the sunset washing the sky and sea in scarlet and gold.  
Up ahead there is a bonfire burning on the beach, and Steve aims towards it, pulling Bucky along by their interlaced fingers.  
The crew sit in a scattered circle around the fire, drinking and laughing. The flames leap and dance, sending up a shower of embers fluttering on the wind that can be seen from the ship. Up on deck Sam will see the signal fire and know that all is well.  
Thor leaps to his feet at Steve’s approach, brandishing a bottle of rum.  
“Our gallant Captain has returned!” he cries, his announcement met with a ragged, slurred cheer.  
Steve gestures for him to sit back down, dropping his boots in a heap at the edge of the circle, and Bruce offers them his bottle as they sit down on the sand. Bucky accepts the offer, sniffing it before taking a sip. He deems it palatable enough and hands it over to Steve, who swallows a mouthful before handing it back. It tastes much like rum, sticky and bittersweet.   
“Cap, Cap, listen to this,” Luis exclaims, pushing a wooden plate of barbeque chicken towards him.  
“Oh, this should be good,” Pietro mutters, snatching a piece of chicken and shoving in in his mouth.  
“This place has _xkaak_!” Luis gestures to the plate.  
Steve picks up a shred of meat and tastes it. Chicken cooked over an open fire, the only seasoning the sea spray on his lips. It’s a rare gift to eat something that doesn’t taste of too much salt, that isn’t pork or fish. He picks out another piece and pushes the plate towards Bucky, who is far less delicate in his eating.  
“So these birds, right? Fucking glorious, they are. And they don’t need no special care or nothin’, just a big long run and a box to nest in, so they can just do their thing, yeah? And you get eggs, like one a day at least, and feathers, they gotta be useful for Hawkeye there.” Luis points to where Clint is sprawled on the sand, his head resting on Nat’s hip. “And yeah, you can cook ‘em I guess, but I’d rather we didn’t, because I’m gonna give ‘em all names. Pretty ladies gotta have names, right?”  
Steve feels like he’s missed something important. “What?”  
“Luis wants chickens on the ship,” Wanda says, punching her brother on the arm when he starts giggling.  
“They’ll be in a box!” Luis insists. “A nice box that they can see out of. I ain’t gonna let them run around on deck, they’ll just skitter right over the edge and into the sea. Chalchiuhtlicue ain’t getting ahold of my birds.” Luis glances at the sparkling waters. “No offense, ma’am. Please don’t make me into a frog.”   
Bucky snorts and takes another drink of liquor, offering the bottle to Steve.  
“We’re not getting chickens,” Steve says, taking a sip before wedging the bottle into the sand.  
“Aww, but Cap-”  
“No chickens,” Steve repeats. “And definitely no goats.”  
Bucky raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t ask for more details, content to lean into Steve’s side and watch the fire.  
Luis grumbles a little, but settles down when Thor takes a swig of rum and stands up to sing, his rich, booming voice carrying far out to sea

_Oh fisherman, fisherman, one two three. Have you got a she crab you can sell to me?  
“Oh yes sir, yes sir, one two three, I’ve got a crab I can sell to thee  
I catches the little fellow up by the backbone. And put him in a bag and marched away home  
Singing Jimmy ing-a-ding-ding, Jimmy ing-a-ding. And the wind blew clear in the morning.  
When I got home my wife was asleep, and I put him in the chamberpot alive to keep  
Singing Jimmy ing-a-ding-ding, Jimmy ing-a-ding. And the wind blew fair in the morning.  
My wife got out to do what she wont, and the crab jumped up and caught her by the -_

“Wait!” Clint shouts, stumbling to his feet. He lurches down to grab his half-empty bottle of rum, nearly toppling forward into the fire. “I have somethin’ to say.”  
Thor offers Clint the floor with a sweep of his hand and sits down. Clint takes a healthy swig of rum and blinks at the fire before turning to Nat.  
“You,” he says slowly, carefully enunciating each word. “Have been with us a while now.”  
Nat nods silently, and Clint points to the dark shape of the ship out at sea, limned in silver by the moonlight. “Sam has this theory that you’re a shar… a tizar… some fucking Russian noble… thing. And your father was a great Peter or something.”  
Nat looks briefly alarmed, but waits to see what happens next.  
“Alright, Clint,” Bruce leans forward. “Sit down now.”  
Clint shakes his head like a dog. “No. No. I gotta say my piece.” He sways gently and points his bottle at Nat. “I love you. I… _love_ you. I dosen’t matter if you’re a guy! I don’t care what’s in your trousers.”   
Nat’s mouth ticks up. “Clint...”  
Clint hesitates. “Unless you’ve got something really… disgusting… down there.” He rubs a hand over his face. “No no no, even then it’s fine. It’s fine. We’ll figure it out.”  
“Clint, I’m a woman.”  
Nat stands up slowly, reaching out to grab Clint by the front of his waistcoat and pulling him in for a kiss.  
Clint lets out a muffled yelp, then sinks quietly into the embrace, tottering slightly when Nat pulls back.  
Nat pulls the bottle out of his grasp and takes Clint firmly in hand, leading him away from the fire and into the line of trees inland.   
The crew whistle and cheer as they disappear into the darkness, and money quickly starts changing hands.  
Luis whistles and throws a silver coin to Bucky, who snatches it out of the air and tucks it into his pocket.  
Steve clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “You been gambling on my ship? That’s a violation of the article.”  
Bucky rolls to his feet with easy grace, handing the half-finished bottle of liquor to Scott and holding out a hand to Steve.  
“We’re not on bero,” he grins as he pulls Steve upright. “Don’t count.”  
Steve laughs, warmth filling his breast and spreading out across his skin as Bucky leads him away, their bare feet leaving tracks side by side in the sand.

They walk in moonlight, listening to the sound of Thor take up his song again.  
Bucky hums along, taking Steve’s hands in his and spinning him around on the sand. They stumble in the silvery light, and Steve slips out of Bucky’s reach, tipping back his head and laughing.  
Bucky prowls after him and Steve lets himself be pursued, and finally captured, wrapped up in a loose embrace. Rough, rope-burned hands tuck under the hem of his shirt and fit to his hips, moulding to his warm skin as though made for that purpose. Steve’s own hands find their way into Bucky’s hair, twining long, silken strands around his fingers as Bucky kisses him, light touches of his mouth that starts to linger.   
Steve chases after Bucky’s kisses, darting his tongue out to lick at salt tinged lips, and Bucky opens up to him, lets himself be pulled down onto the soft sand.  
Clumsy fingers work their clothing loose, Bucky teasing the buttons of Steve’s shirt open one by one to lick and mouth at the exposed skin. Steve sits back on his heels, straddling Bucky’s hips as he strips off his shirt. Bucky caresses the broad lines of Steve’s chest, thumbing at his nipples and nipping at Steve’s kiss-bruised lips. He sits up sharply, almost dislodging Steve from his seat, and closes his mouth around one peaked nipple, pausing to brush his tongue across the pad of his thumb and rub it slickly across the other neglected hard nub of flesh while he licks and sucks.  
Steve’s breath hitches as he curls his hand around the nape of Bucky’s neck, his other hand grasping the back of Bucky’s shirt and tugging, halfway between ridding him of his clothing and keeping him exactly where he is.  
Bucky finally pulls back, and Steve drags the soft muslin cloth up his back, getting his arms tangled in his haste. Bucky chuckles as he tugs off the sleeves, his hair mussed and eyes bright, and looks up at Steve with such affection that his heart forgets how to beat.  
“ _Komma ben tut_ ,” Bucky murmurs, stroking his way up Steve’s spine, his coarse fingers leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.  
Steve doesn’t know the words, but he can read the creases that gather in the corner of Bucky’s eyes, the truth of his smile, the blue of his eyes. He pushes Bucky down onto the sand and kisses him, deep and rough and relentless, as though he could breathe his devotion into Bucky’s mouth. Trace the unspoken words on his teeth with the tip of his tongue.  
Bucky takes each silent offering and gives his own in return. Each press of his teeth an oath, each kiss writing his name on the treaty of Steve’s body.

Bucky pushes his knee between Steve’s thighs, rubbing against the hard line of his cock. Steve whines into Bucky’s mouth, the sound swallowed up as he thrusts blindly, shifting until he can feel Bucky, hard and twitching, pressed against his thigh.  
Bucky unfastens the buttons of Steve's trousers with trembling hands, pushing down the waistband far enough to expose him. Steve braces his weight on his hands, raising himself up enough for Bucky to shove his own trousers down to mid-thigh. Steve shivers as the cool night air blows across his bare skin, and lets out a soft sigh of relief when Bucky reaches up to him and guides him back down, pressing their bodies together again. Arms wrap around Steve’s shoulders, so tight he can barely move.  
Steve’s mouth finds Bucky’s, kisses clumsy and frantic as their bodies slide together. It’s a little too rough, a little too much friction, but Steve chases the sensation, rocking his hips as Bucky thrusts up to meet him.  
Steve sucks a mark on Bucky’s throat, and he lets out a low, guttural moan and comes, fingers digging hard enough into Steve’s shoulder blades to leave bruises as Steve ruts against his stomach, slick with sweat and semen.  
“ _Jawra_ ,” Bucky rasps against his shoulder. “ _Pirrini, jawra_.”  
Steve bites into the mark on Bucky's throat, muffling his voice as he spills between them. Bucky soothes him as he gasps for breaths, gentle hands skimming across his skin as their sweat cools in the ocean breeze.  
Steve kisses Bucky’s throat in quiet apology, earning a soft chuckle.  
He should move, get up and go down to the water’s edge to wash off the worst of the sweat and come clinging to their skin, but when he starts to shift Bucky tightens his grip around Steve’s shoulders.  
“ _Atch_ ,” Bucky mumbles sleepily.  
Steve kisses the bite mark again and rests his head on Bucky’s shoulder, humming contentedly as Bucky tugs the cord holding his ponytail in place loose and combs fingers through Steve’s hair, spreading the fine golden strands across his shoulders.

Steve feels his eyelids getting heavy, and forces himself to his feet, leading a grumbling, sleepy Bucky down to the shoreline to clean up. The water is cool enough to wake him up a little, splashing it over his shoulders and across his stomach before pulling up his trousers and buttoning them up. Bucky lingers in the water, head tipped back to look up at the stars, while Steve walks along the kicked up sand in search of their clothes. He shakes out his shirt and pulls it on, glancing back to check on Bucky, who is still paddling in the shallows, the North Star hanging low on the horizon.   
Bucky looks up with a smile when Steve approaches, offering him his shirt. He slips it on, heedless of the clinging sand, and tugs at the hem of Steve’s shirt, twitching it out of his hands while he tries to fasten it up.  
“Look better without,” Bucky says with a sly grin.  
Steve huffs and steps back, moving away from Bucky’s reach and slides the buttons into place one by one.  
“A poor Captain,” he murmurs, looking down at himself. Barefoot and down to his shirtsleeves with his hair loose about his shoulders. “I don’t even have my hat.”  
He gathers up his hair, combing through it with his fingers and ties it up with the cord.  
Bucky makes a disparaging noise and comes close enough to slip an arm around his waist.  
“Ain’t a hat that makes you a good Captain, Pirrini” he murmurs against Steve’s cheek, chapped lips rasping against his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bitty - little  
> deekin - looking  
> xkaak - chicken  
> komma ben tut - I love you  
> jawra - come on  
> Pirrini - sweetheart  
> atch - stay  
> staddi - hat


	8. The Insight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wraps his arms around Bucky’s waist, pressing his mouth to the nape of Bucky's neck.  
> “Whatever happens,” he whispers against the collar of Bucky’s shirt. “It was worth it. I would die a hundred times over for a taste of what we’ve had.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the fabulous [Trish](http://frau-argh.tumblr.com) for the amazing art, and... fuck, everything. You bring joy to my life every damn day  
> Thank you to [Rohkeutta](http://rohkeutta.tumblr.com) for making this bang such a great experience, and making the most amazing art.
> 
> Raising a cup of rum to Eidheann, the best beta reader a reprobate like me could ever hope for, and to Krycek for listening to me agonise over plot and historical accuracy  
> Raising a cup of caffiene-free tea to my fandom son Prince, who made this amazing [Moodboard](https://olanordoskocheran.tumblr.com/post/164323362391/theprinceofprinces-moodboard-for)
> 
> Special thanks to the Buttaneers. A pair of scoundrels, they are!
> 
> If you want to learn more about the Pirates and their ship, check out [olanordoskocheran](https://olanordoskocheran.tumblr.com)  
> And you can find me on [Tumblr](http://thelittleblackfox.tumblr.com) where I mostly post pictures of Sebastian Stan's insufferably pretty face and complain about Historical au's

Clint whistles down from the foretop, catching Steve’s attention, and points straight ahead past the prow of the ship.  
Bucky, repairing a frayed length of rope down in the lower shrouds, ties the last of the knots and trims the end with his vendetta knife before climbing up until he can reach out to the mizzenmast and lean on it for support.  
Steve lifts his head up to watch Bucky’s progress, admiring the way his bare feet find footholds easily in the web of ropes, the strength in his upper body as he climbs. Steve has no fear when Bucky walks along the tautly strung rat lines under the yardarm, following the line of the mainsail and holding onto the long, narrow beam for support until he is out over the water. He pulls a telescope from his belt and opens it with a deft flick of his wrist before sighting across the water. He closes the telescope with a snap and makes his way back, moving swiftly and surely across the billowing sail and clambering down the lower shrouds to land lightly at Steve’s side, flashing him a sharp edged smile. Steve knows that look, a real troublemaker.  
“What do you see?” Steve asks, fighting the urge to lick his lower lip in that slow, deliberate way that never fails to get Bucky’s attention.  
“Merchant bero, looks Dutch.”  
“Sounds promising,” Steve hums thoughtfully. He answers Bucky’s smile with one of his own. “Worth a closer look?”  
Bucky nods, and Steve can almost see him sparking with impatience, a crackling energy that Steve can feel thrumming across his own skin.  
“Inform the crew,” Steve says.  
“Ava,” Bucky answers before he’s away, moving silently down the steps to the main deck and spreading the word.  
Steve looks down at the crew, his smile growing wider as the word spreads across the deck. Each man sets to finishing up their tasks. It’ll be a while yet before they’re in reach of the other ship, but there is still a thrill of excitement that washes out across them. Their time on Stark Island had been a much-needed reprieve, a week spent sleeping on dry land, the ship landed on the beach while they worked on repairs and resupplies. But now they are itching to get back to work and fill the empty spaces in the hold with plunder.

Steve fixes the wheel in place and goes down to join Bucky on the main deck.  
“Hawkeye,” he calls up to the foretop. “What do you see?”  
“Dutch ship, going by their flags,” Clint calls down. “No idea what kind. Two masted and square rigged, though.”  
Steve glances at Bucky. “Any thoughts?”  
“The Dutch like to _razee_ their bero, take down the fore and aft decks. Give them the head of a cod an’ the tail of a mackerel.” Bucky says as Steve stifles a laugh. “Tell Hawkeye it’s a Pinnace.”  
Bucky gives Steve a pat on the shoulder, letting his hand drift to the nape of his neck and squeeze gently before withdrawing, heading below decks to help Pietro with the powder and shot.  
“Hawkeye,” Steve calls up. “Is it a Pinnace?”  
Clint glares at the horizon. “It’s Dutch, so… Yeah. Sure.”  
Steve doesn’t hold back on his laughter this time, going to the prow to take a closer look himself at the ship ahead.  
He extends his telescope and peers through the glass, twisting the tubing until the distant ship comes into focus. A merchant ship, travelling alone, and from it’s position no doubt bound the Indies laden with manufactured goods from Europe.  
It is another hour before they are close enough for Steve to go for the ship's bell, giving it a sharp ring and calling the crew to attention. They assemble around him, jostling each other and laughing, Bucky standing with the twins, keeping an almost parental eye over them and giving Wanda a nudge when she gets a little too fired up. Clint climbs down the rigging and joins Nat at the back. The change in their relationship is not as overt as Steve’s with Bucky, and displayed in softly spoken words and light touches in passing. Even in those simple gestures it is clear that Nat cares as much for Clint as he does in return.  
“Gentlemen,” Steve calls the group to attention. Wanda clears her throat, and gets an affectionate poke in the ribs from Bucky.   
“Excuse me. Lady and gentlemen.” Steve gives Wanda a slight inclination of the head. She shifts awkwardly but looks pleased. “We have a Dutch merchant ship in our sights, neither heavily armed nor fast moving.”  
The crew look to each other, exchanging remarks and, Steve notices, a few bets.  
“Pietro, you’re with Nat. Try not to get shot at.”  
“It was one time,” Pietro mutters, and gets an elbow in the ribs from Wanda.  
“Clint and Peter, up in the rigging. It’s a two masted ship, so I want you on their sails.” Clint nods once, and Peter pats his pockets for his catapult. “The rest of you on deck. I want this quick and clean, understood?”  
The crew nod, restless and itching to get into a good fight.  
“Alright then, we’ll make them rue the day they took to the high seas.” Steve makes a shooing gesture. “Be away with you.”  
The crew scatter, readying themselves for battle.

They wait with their weapons, pistols primed and ready, swords sharpened to a fine edge. Clint sits on the deck sorting through his collection of arrows, Thor at his side coiling up lengths of rope in preparation for boarding. Luis walks up and down the deck, swinging Thor's hammer experimentally while Scott warms up with his knives.  
“I don’t know, suku’un. I mean, I get it works for you, and that’s great an’ all,” Luis swings the hammer in a wide arc. “But I like something sharp. Plus this thing is kinda slow.”  
“Well, you need to swing it with the wrist, the shoulder, the hip,” Thor mimes bringing a hammer around into an uppercut, his whole body following the motion. “It needs balance. It takes very little to crush a man's skull.”  
Luis gives Thor’s muscled arms a pointed look. “Maybe not for you, but I’m just a little guy. When I throw a punch it’s gotta have teeth in it, you know what I’m saying?”  
Luis lowers the hammer, resting it on the deck at Thor’s feet.  
“And your macuahuitl is a fine weapon,” Thor says fondly. “You wield it with strength and grace.”  
“Aww, shut the fuck up, man. You’re making me blush.” Luis gives Thor a gentle punch on the arm. He knows from past experience that punching Thor is like punching a cliff face, and about as effective.  
Nat walks past with a cannonball in each hand, Pietro following closely behind.  
Scott watches them pass, sheathing his knives and skulking over to where Clint has finished sorting through his arrows and stacking them carefully in his quiver.  
“So how come Nat is still Nat?” Scott asks in a low tone.  
Clint looks up, squinting in the sunlight. “Huh?”  
Scott looks like he regrets opening his mouth, but ploughs on. “I mean, you two are a thing now, right?” Clint nods silently. “And it’s not like it’s a secret. I mean, everyone knows don’t they? So why is it still Nat, and not Natalie or Natash-”  
“Nat,” Clint says flatly. “His name’s Nat. Always has been, and until he wants to be called something different, always will be.” Clint slips his quiver onto his shoulder and picks up his bow. “Being with me don’t change any of that.”  
Scott nods. “But…”  
“Scotty, Nat is Nat,” Luis says patiently. “Don’t matter what’s going on downstairs, ‘cause that’s shit you’re never gonna see if you wanna keep your eyeballs, you know?”  
Clint snorts and starts climbing the rigging, and soon is out of earshot, if not sight.  
Thor sets down his last coil of rope. “Have I ever told you the tale of the trickster god Loki?”  
Luis frowns. “That the guy who turned into a horse? Like a lady horse? Then did it with a man horse and had a baby horse with, like, eight legs?”  
Thor nods, grinning widely.  
“Pal, your people are, like seriously fucked up.”  
Scott clears his throat. Loudly. “Human sacrifice, Luis.”

The crew take their positions as the Star & Shield draws up alongside the merchant ship. Steve stands on the deck, Sam at his right, Bucky as his left holding his body still like a coiled spring, waiting for the word from Steve before he bursts into action. It’s enough to make Steve’s heart hammer in his chest, glancing over his shoulder to meet Bucky’s eye before turning back to the merchant ship, waiting for the moment to strike.  
“Hawkeye,” he calls up to the foremast. “Fly the flag.”  
Clint pulls on a rope and the flag unfurls, the star within a circle flapping in the wind.  
“Nat, fire when ready.”  
Steve barely hears her response, his blood singing in his ears. There is a crack of canonfire and the first shot punches through the other ship's main sail, splintering the yardarm. The sail tears in two, and the wind wrenches it away out to sea.  
On the other deck the captain screams orders to his crew, and they race across the deck. Steve looks to the sails, seeking out a white flag of surrender. A handful of the other crew gather around the carriage guns arranged on the deck.  
“Nat, take out their guns,” Steve calls.  
There is a whoop of excitement from Pietro, and the sound of powder catching. The second cannonball smashes through the hull just below the merchants guns. Nat fires another round, the ball punching through the railing and slamming into the deck.  
The merchant captain calls his men to arms, and they gather on the deck, two dozen men or more. Steve strides forward, knowing without having to look the Bucky will be right by his side, and draws his sword.  
“I am Captain Rogers of the Star & Shield,” he shouts across the narrowing line of water between them. “Do you surrender?”  
The merchant captain pulls out a pistol and aims it at Steve, pulling the trigger. His aim is poor and the distance too great, but Bucky still grabs Steve by his belt and tugs him to one side, muttering a curse under his breath.  
Steve laughs and points his sword. “Prepare to board!” he shouts.  
Thor and Bruce throw grappling hooks to the other ship, and the crew grab hold of the ropes, hauling the two ships together. The merchants grab at the hooks, trying to pull them free. By the time they realise that the ropes need to be severed, Steve has given the order to cross.

They swarm over the railings, Steve at the lead, Bucky at his side. Clint and Peter follow the charge up in the rigging, taking out men with well aimed arrows and stones. If more arrows fall around Nat, storming across the deck with a flintlock in each hand, no one calls attention.  
Sam swings his twin axes in short, brutal arcs, felling men like trees to Steve’s right. At his left, Bucky moves like a whirlwind, hangar in one hand and one of Steve’s pistols in the other. No man comes close enough to Steve to fight, dead as soon as they have laid eyes on him.   
Battle calm settles on Steve’s shoulders, and he leads the way through the throng, his sword drawn and facing forward, towards the merchant captain.  
The air is filled with the sound of fighting, swords clashing and pistols firing. Thor’s voice rising high above the melee, singing joyfully as his hammer comes down. Bucky slashes at a merchant, turning to smash the butt of his flintlock into another's face, spinning away from the arc of blood that streams from his nose and mouth, and cracking him on the back of the skull when he doubles over. Droplets of blood cling to his clothes, soak into his hair, and Steve wants so desperately to kiss him.  
As quickly as the battle had begun, it ends. The last fighter drops with Sam’s axe in his chest, and the captain is left cowering at the wheel, his sword still sheathed at his hip.  
Steve doesn’t offer him surrender, just the mercy of a quick death.

Steve wipes the flat of his blade on the dead captain's sleeve before turning to take in his surroundings. The ship has been damaged in the skirmish, but seems to be holding. The crew catch their breaths, checking their weapons but not putting them away until the ship has been thoroughly searched.   
Bucky is close enough for Steve to feel the heat radiating from his body, to hear the slow, heavy breaths he takes.  
“Nat, you and Pietro see if you can find a powder room or armoury, take what you can.  
Nat glances at the mangled deck around the ship's carriage guns and Steve shakes his head.  
“Leave it be, Nat,” he says quietly. “There’ll be other canons, and Clint won’t let me hear the end of it if you take a swim.”  
Nat snorts, but gestures for Pietro to follow, and they both head below deck.  
“Thor, Sam, you know what we need in the way of supplies, go see what’s in the hold.” Steve glances around the group. “The rest of you, scour the ship, gather what you can. Then you can look to filling your own pockets.”  
There is a collective grumble, but they get to work. Steve snags Wanda before she can reach the ladder below decks. “Go check in with Clint, have him and Peter watching the horizon,” he says quietly. “If they need you on the mizzenmast, that’s where you’ll be. Understood?”  
She nods warily. “You expecting trouble?”  
Steve flashes her a grin. “Always.”  
He checks that she crosses the deck, clambering onto the railing and using a dangling rope to steady her way across. He turns to Bucky, and any remark about the fight going well dies in his throat.   
Bucky glowers at him, his eyes dark, and it sends a trail of fire down Steve’s spine like a match to a slick of lamp oil. Bucky slides his hangar into its sheath with a sharp click, and without a word reaches out to grab the front of Steve’s coat.  
Steve licks his lips, a slow drag of tongue across his ripe lower lip, and Bucky hisses under his breath, tracking Steve’s movement with a predatory eye.  
Steve could swear that there is black powder in his veins, burning where there should be blood, throwing sparks across his skin.  
Bucky tugs at his jacket before letting go. “Not here,” he rasps and turns away, stalking past the dead to where the two ships meet and climbing across, pausing only to give Steve a last, searing look before heading into the cabins under the aft deck.  
Steve smooths down the front of his shirt and walks slowly, step followed by step followed by step, forcing himself to keep his pace steady, to keep his balance even. He nods as Bruce and Scott bring up the first barrels from the hold, climbing over the rails and landing lightly on the deck.  
He crosses to the cabins, hesitating before climbing down the ladder and walking along the corridor to the Great Cabin.   
He pauses at the door, takes a deep, steadying breath, and pushes open the door.

Bucky is stood by the desk, slowly disarming himself. He lays his hangar and pistols down on top of the maps and papers, and turns to face Steve.  
Without uttering a word Bucky stalks toward Steve and grabs him by the shirt, kicking the door shut and slamming Steve against it. Steve doesn’t hesitate, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s neck and pulling him in for a rough, frantic kiss.  
Bucky growls into Steve’s mouth, crowding him up against the door and licking into his mouth. His stubble rasps against Steve’s jaw, hands at his shoulders working the coat down Steve’s arms.  
Steve loosens his hold on Bucky for long enough to shake off the coat, letting it fall to a heap at their feet. Bucky curls his tongue against Steve’s teeth and shoves rough hands under his shirt, ignoring the buttons in favour of dragging the soft cotton up, breaking the kiss long enough to pull the collar over Steve’s head, using the tangled sleeves to pin his hands against the wall before finding his mouth again, kissing him with such determination that Steve barely has a chance to catch his breath.  
Steve twists and tugs his way free of his shirtsleeves, grabbing Bucky by the shoulders, blood spattered shirt bunching up in his hands. He pulls, feeling the seams of the shirt give way under his hands and Bucky pulls back sharply. “ _Dinlo_ ,” he hisses, giving Steve a quick, bruising kiss before stepping back and stripping off his shirt.  
Steve gasps for air, tipping his head back and letting it thud against the door. Bucky wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and Steve feels his cock twitch and thicken at the sight.

Bucky throws his shirt at one of the chairs behind the desk, reaching over to pull open the drawer and retrieve the jar of salve tucked away in there. Steve’s breath catches, and he straightens up, kicking off his boots and pushing them to one side. He looks up through his long eyelashes as Bucky approaches, tucking his thumb into the waistband of his trousers, his other hand reaching up to smooth against the nape of Bucky’s neck and draw him closer, eyes drifting closed as Bucky kisses him more tenderly.  
There is still a rough edge to the kiss, a sharp bite, a scratch of stubble, a hand twisting into Steve’s hair and pulling a little too sharply.  
“ _Dinderlo_ ,” Bucky mutters against Steve’s lips. He can guess what the word means from the sour edge in Bucky’s tone.   
Steve makes no attempt at apology, hands moving to Bucky’s hips and pulling him close, can feel how hard he is. Bucky groans into his mouth, pressing his cock against the crease of Steve’s thigh, hot and thick under his coarse linen trousers.  
Steve works open his belt, letting his sword fall to the floor with a clatter, and pulls the buttons on his clothing open one by one. Bucky doesn’t attempt to help, one hand twisted in Steve’s hair, the other bracing his weight against the door, glass jar cupped in the palm of his hand. He lets go of Steve long enough to unstopper the jar and push two fingers into the salve, before letting the jar fall to the floor with a clatter.  
Steve shoves down his trousers, working them down his legs. His movements are slow and clumsy as Bucky teases with his tongue, flicking it against the roof of Steve’s mouth, along his teeth, the touches light and quick and not enough. He pursues blindly, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s neck and darting his tongue into Bucky’s mouth. Bucky catches it between his teeth, pressing sharply, and at the same moment slips a slick finger down the cleft of Steve’s ass and pushes into him to the third knuckle.  
Steve whines, and Bucky sucks on Steve’s tongue, his finger pressing in and withdrawing in a slow, easy rhythm. Steve pants into Bucky’s mouth and ruts against his stomach, a fine sheen of sweat on his skin that begs to be lapped up when Bucky crooks his finger, cocking his wrist as he eases in a second.  
“Dinlo,” Bucky rasps into Steve’s ear, sucking the lobe into his mouth and pulling it slowly between his teeth. “Man points a pistol at you an’ you don’t even duck.”  
Steve gasps, half laughing at what has Bucky so riled. “Didn’t need to. Got you looking out for me.”  
Bucky twists his fingers roughly, and Steve turns his head to nuzzle Bucky’s stubbled cheek, mouthing at his jaw until he kisses back.

Bucky works in a third finger and Steve groans, pushing back against his hand.  
“Come on,” he says, his voice unsteady, and runs his hands down Bucky’s back, tugging the waistband of his trousers down and cupping the curve of Bucky’s ass.   
Bucky’s hips kick forward, following the pull of Steve’s hands, and his trousers drop down to pool around his bare feet. Bucky wraps his hand around his cock, slicking up his length. Steve pushes away from the door to turn around, but Bucky bends his knees, grabbing Steve by the waist and hoisting him into the air.  
Steve lets out a startled laugh, steadying himself with hands on Bucky’s shoulders as he straightens up and slams Steve’s back against the door, making it shudder in its frame. The oak holds up under the strain as Steve wraps his legs around Bucky’s waist, biting his lip as Bucky spreads his ass and runs a finger over his sensitive skin. He dips the finger into his loosened ring of muscle and withdraws it, before guiding his cock into place, cursing under his breath as Steve opens up to him. Steve winds his arms around Bucky’s neck, pushing fingers into his hair, damp with sweat and blood and seawater, and shakes so hard he fears that his heart might give out.  
Bucky holds him in place with one hand on his hip, the other pressed against the wood at his shoulder, and thrusts, knocking Steve back against the door and making him moan. He doesn’t start slowly, building into a steady rhythm, but pounds into him, fucking him hard and fast. Steve kisses Bucky fiercely, licking his way into his mouth with broad sweeps of his tongue, digging fingers into his shoulders hard enough to bruise and feeling the bunch and flex of his muscles. The door rattles in its frame with every thrust, joining the sound of muffled gasps and the slap of skin on skin. Bucky leans into Steve, resting his forearm on the wood above his head and cradling the back of Steve’s head, golden hair twisted in his fingers. Every rock of Bucky’s hips has Steve’s cock grind up against his stomach, slick with sweat and salve. 

It’s too much, too fast, and Steve spills, spattering Bucky’s chest and gasping with the shock of it. He clenches around Bucky, tugging at his hair as aftershocks crash over him like waves beating against the rocky shore. He feels Bucky come inside him, feels the tremors that wrack his body, and Steve holds on as tightly as he can. Bucky shifts inside him and Steve wraps his legs more tightly around his waist, crossing his ankles.  
“Stay,” Steve breathes into Bucky’s hair. “Just another minute.”  
Bucky kisses Steve’s throat. “Pirrini,” he murmurs.  
It cannot last, and Bucky finally pulls out of him, murmuring softly into his shoulder. Steve aches, sweet and deep, and he drags his thumb along Bucky’s spine. “I wasn’t in danger,” he says softly. “Those flintlocks can’t aim a damn past five yards.”  
Bucky growls, deep and rumbling in his chest. “Ain’t the point.”  
“I know,” Steve kisses the corner of Bucky’s mouth. There are so many things he wants to say, his heart full to bursting.  
“ _Korromengro_ ,” Bucky mutters. “ _Mitchipen_. Nothing but trouble.”  
Steve has no idea what Bucky’s saying, and smiles against his cheek. “Probably.”  
Bucky lifts Steve up into the air, spinning them around in arms strengthened by climbing rigging and hauling sails, and carries him to their cabin.

When they finally return to the main deck the merchant ship has been cleared of plunder and the goods stowed away in the hold. The ship itself is an orange glow on the horizon, Sam having given the order to set sail and torch it from a safe distance. Bruce and Peter tend to the ship while the rest of the crew are scattered on the deck, sorting through their finds under the amber light of half a dozen new oil lamps.   
Pietro cradles an accordion in his lap, carefully picking out notes. Luis has amassed a substantial collection of blades and a couple of flintlock rifles, and sprawls on the deck with Wanda at his side, explaining the merits of each blade. There were several barrels of the strong black ale from Ireland on the ship, and Thor has already tapped the last barrel left on deck. He calls out at the sight of Steve and Bucky, pouring them each a measure of frothing ale.  
“Our gallant Captain!” Thor calls. “Come, join us!”  
Steve pats Sam on the shoulder and murmurs his thanks before taking his cup of ale. It is bitter on his tongue, tasting of scorched malt and treacle, and he finds himself liking the flavour. He sits across from Clint, trimming the fletches on his retrieved arrows and listening as Nat mutters in his ear, chuckling softly.  
Bucky brings his own cup of ale and a chunk of plundered day-old bread, making himself comfortable at Steve’s side. They tear it into chunks and listen as Pietro plays snatches of tunes.  
“You have a good ear for music,” Steve says with admiration.  
Bucky nods. “Ava, you can _bosh_.”  
Pietro looks embarrassed. “No, no. My grandpapa could. He used to try to teach me,” Pietro shrugs. “I was a bad student.”  
“Come now,” Thor gives him a bright smile. “We are starved of music. Play for us!”  
There is a chorus of agreement and Pietro ducks his head with a blush. Wanda nudges him gently and he straightens up again. He clears his throat and runs his fingers over the keys, finding his place by touch and memory, and slowly keys a simple melody. He plays it again, gaining confidence, adding grace notes and improvisations along the way.  
Clint gives Nat a nudge, and gets flicked in the ear. Luis catches sight of the exchange and gets to his feet, offering a hand to Wanda. “Iits’in, dance with me.”  
Wanda takes his hand and lets Luis pull her upright, and they spin around along the deck in time to the music. The next time Clint gives Nat a hopeful look he gets a terse nod and leaps to his feet, dragging Nat across the the impromptu dancefloor. He lets Nat take the lead, and they move together a little more slowly than Luis and Wanda, swaying with the rocking of the ship while Clint tries to make Nat laugh.  
Bucky’s head drops onto Steve’s shoulder, half-dozing in the lantern light.  
“You worn him out, already?” Sam laughs.   
Steve huffs and gently pulls Bucky down until his head is on his lap, cheek pillowed against Steve’s thigh, the back of his head pressing to Steve’s stomach.  
Bucky ignores the jokes and lewd remarks from the crew, resting his hand on Steve’s knee and letting out a contented sigh as Steve combs fingers through his hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp, teasing out the tangles and tucking the loose strands behind his ear. Bucky drifts and falls asleep, lulled by the rocking of the ship and gentle caresses.

The fair weather holds, and they sail north, skirting the shipping routes sketched out on Steve’s map, an eye to the horizon in search of unwitting targets.   
On the deck Thor sings a song of his homeland as he works the ropes, Pietro humming along as he scrubs salt into the deck. Steve looks up at the mizzenmast, where Bucky is doing his daily check of the sails and rigging. He replaces a frayed length of rope with nimble fingers, pulling his vendetta out of his pocket and flicking it open, cutting away the damaged rope and coiling it up to throw over his shoulder. It will come in handy elsewhere on ship.  
Over on the foretop Clint whistles and points to the horizon. Bucky looks up sharply, climbing up to the next yardarm and opening up his telescope. He looks out in the direction that Clint is pointing.  
When Bucky doesn’t immediately start climbing down Steve frowns.  
“Bucky?” he calls up, although he knows it’s unlikely Bucky can hear him all the way up there.  
He watches as Bucky slowly lowers the telescope and it slips from his fingers, tumbling down into past the sails, skimming past the railing and lost to the sea.  
“Bucky!” Steve shouts, but it falls on deaf ears as Bucky stumbles, losing his footing and grabbing the yardarm. His legs dangle for a moment, the wind pulling the sails away from him, nothing but his grip on the beam keeping him from a drop into the ocean. Steve can only stare as Bucky kicks his legs, swinging back and forth until he manages to get a foothold on the line and haul himself back up. For a moment he doesn’t move, clinging to the yardarm and shaking so hard that the line trembles.  
He starts to move, shuffling along the sail until he reaches the shrouds, and scrambles down them, heavy handed and clumsy in a way Steve has never seen before.  
Steve climbs up the net of rope to meet him, wrapping a firm arm around Bucky’s waist and pulling him close. Bucky collapses into him, and Steve gets a glimpse of pale skin and wide, shocked eyes before Bucky clings to him, his breath hot and harsh against the wool collar of Steve’s coat.  
“Change course,” Bucky’s voice cracks. “ _Run_.”  
“What’s happening?” They hit the deck and Bucky’s knees give way, and Steve lowers him to the boards.  
“ _The Insight_ ,” Bucky’s hands tighten on Steve’s coat, straining the seams, his knuckles turning white. “Hydra ship. It’s him. It’s Pierce.”

 _Ship_. Bucky called it a ship. When had Steve ever heard him say anything other than bero?  
He looks up to see a handful of crewmen gathered around them, the same look of concern on their faces that he knows they can see on his. Clint pushes through the crowd to the front.  
“Cap, there’s a ship on the port side heading this way, got us in its sight. It's…” Clint shakes his head. “It’s huge.”  
“What d’you mean, huge?” Luis asks.  
“I mean it’s the biggest damn ship I’ve ever seen,” Clint says weakly. “Bigger than a Galleon. Three, maybe four decks?”  
“Three decks.” It takes Steve a moment to realise it is Bucky speaking, his voice cold and distant. “Three thousand tons. A hundred guns. She’ll blast you out of the water.”  
He sounds lost. Defeated. The crew look to each other. A hundred guns against their half dozen. It wouldn’t be a fight, it would be a massacre.  
“They’ll have to catch us first,” Steve growls. “Luis, take the wheel,” he says, fighting to keep his voice steady. “Get us as far from that ship as you can.”  
Luis nods, shouting out orders to Wanda and Scott to trim the sails as he takes the wheel, Pietro at his heels to work the aft sails. Steve trusts Luis with the ship, knows he won’t bank too sharply and risk them capsizing.   
Bruce kneels down to study Bucky’s pale face, the fine tremors in his fingers, but does not dare to reach out and touch him. “I’ll fetch brandy,” he says softly, and goes off below deck. That leaves Thor watching over them, who has no compunctions about touching, laying a firm hand between Bucky’s shoulders.  
“We are in peril?” he asks.   
Steve nods stiffly. He glances down at Bucky, knowing that it’s his secret to tell, not Steve’s. “A Hydra warship commandeered by Lord Pierce, his former master.”  
“He seeks revenge?”  
“He seeks his property,” Steve grits his teeth.  
Thor’s expression darkens. “Then he will fail.”  
Bucky lets go of Steve’s coat and reaches up to wrap his hand around Thor’s forearm, squeezing slightly.  
“You are one of us, brother,” Thor insists. “We stand together.”

Bruce returns with a cup of brandy and instructions to sip it slowly. Bucky holds the cup in a tight grip to keep his hands from shaking and swallows it down in a single gulp, pushing the cup back into Bruce’s hands. He pulls himself to his feet and heads down to the main deck, shaking off any attempt to make him stay put.  
Steve wants so badly to follow him, to wrap Bucky up in his arms and hide him from the world. Instead he leaves him be for the moment, and leads Thor to the portside of the deck, pulling out his telescope. He snaps it open and holds it to his eye, twisting the cylinder until the image comes into focus.   
A warship at full sail, slicing through the water at a speed they could never hope to match. He hands over the telescope to Thor, who peers through the glass and, after a heavy silence, lowers it again.  
“Mad Dog Buchanan has made some powerful enemies,” Thor says softly. “As have we all.”  
“He hates that name,” Steve says absently, glancing across the deck where Bucky is busying himself with the boat.   
“We cannot engage them in battle and hope to win,” Thor draws his attention back. “We are outmanned and outgunned.”  
Steve takes his telescope and slips it into his pocket. “Then we run.” 

“Bucky?” Steve calls, walking across to the boat and finding him packing supplies into the hold.  
For a moment Steve can’t breathe, the air catching in his throat and making him choke.  
“Bucky?” he hates the way his voice breaks. “Are you… leaving?”  
Bucky looks up, his expression grim, and shakes his head. The rush of relief is almost dizzying, and Steve has to grip the edge of the boat to stay on his feet.  
“I ain’t leaving,” Bucky adds a coil of rope to the stash. “You are.”  
Steve can only stare blankly as Bucky packs away the last of the supplies. “There’s hooks and fishing line in there. You’ll need to ration what you have.”  
Steve finally pulls himself together. “What the hell are you saying?” he snaps.  
Bucky doesn’t look at him, keeping his eyes cast downward. “There’s room on the boat for you all. Follow the setting sun, keep the North Star to your shoulder. You’ll reach America eventually.”  
“Eventually,” Steve sputters. “Bucky, we could get hit by storms. We could capsize. We could die of thirst.”  
“Could,” Bucky hisses, looking up at him. For all the anger in his voice he looks terrified. “You _could_ die, but if you stay here you _will_.”  
“Bucky I’m not leaving this ship. I’m not leaving you.”  
Bucky reaches out to him, warm, rough fingers against the line of his jaw. “Pierce will have you killed, Steve. All of you. Don’t make me watch.”  
“Don’t make me leave.” Steve presses his palm to Bucky’s hand, weaving their fingers together. “I won’t leave you. You know I won’t.”  
Bucky doesn’t hiss at him or swear, just brings his other hand to cradle the back of Steve’s neck.  
“Dinlo,” he whispers, his voice thick.  
Steve presses their foreheads together, and breathes in their mingled scent. Saltwater and sweat and brandy.  
“Tell me what to do.” Steve whispers. “My North Star, you keep me on course. Tell me what to do.”  
Bucky screws his eyes shut, and takes a deep, ragged breath.  
“We need a map.”

Sam and Steve unfurl the Spanish map on the deck, weighing down the corners with the contents of their pockets. Steve’s telescope and sheet knife weigh down one side, Sam’s compass and switchblade on the other.  
Luis and Bucky work out their position, marking it down with a cross, though Luis is loath to mess with the precious map.   
“What are we looking for?” Luis asks as the rest of the crew gather in a circle around them.  
Bucky twists his mouth up in a grimace. “Anything. Anything that can slow them down, hold them off until sunset.”  
Steve looks up at the sun, high up in the sky. “That’s a long time to keep them busy. What happens at sunset?”  
Bucky points to the boat. “We rig that up with lanterns, and put it to sea, then snuff out very last light on the ship and change course.”  
“Cunning,” Steve murmurs.  
Bucky nods, distracted. “But we need distance for it to work. Reefs, rocks, shallow waters. Anything that will slow it down, or tear the hull.”  
Steve turns to the crew, firing orders. “Luis, check our course, see if you can get us upwind from them, give us an advantage,” Steve says quickly. Luis gives him a clumsy salute and returns to the wheel.  
“Hawkeye,” Steve continues, “Go to your post, look for anything that will provide cover. Fog, storms, anything. You hear me?”  
“Aye, Cap," Clint nods and climbs up to the foremast.  
“The rest of you, unfurl the sails, every last one of them. Run extra sheets if you have to.”   
The crew scatter, climbing the rigging and pulling on the ropes.  
“Anything?” Steve asks softly. Bucky shakes his head, sitting back on his heels.   
Steve looks out to sea, and the ship in the distance.

Little by little, hour by hour, the ship gains on them.  
There are no storms on the horizon, no hidden reefs under the water. They turn to desperate measures, throwing plundered goods overboard, followed by the barrels of ale and fresh water, but still the ship gains on them.  
When the sun is low in the sky the Insight fires its first cannonball. It falls short, landing in the water just past the stern, and Steve knows that it’s over.  
He wraps his arms around Bucky’s waist, pressing his mouth to the nape of Bucky's neck.  
“Whatever happens,” he whispers against the collar of Bucky’s shirt. “It was worth it. I would die a hundred times over for a taste of what we’ve had.”  
Bucky doesn’t answer, only leans back into the cradle of his arms.

The next shot fired clips the rear of the ship, shattering the windows in the Great Cabin. The third shot smashes into the mizzenmast, cracking the great timber and causing the ship to list violently. The mast holds, creaking and groaning as the sails twist against the wind and tear.  
“Send up a white flag,” Steve tells Clint. “And furl the sails.”  
He goes down to the Great Cabin, and pauses for a minute in the doorway. The painted desk covered with maps and papers and carved wooden ships, his journal left open, the latest entry unfinished.  
He unpins the Treaty from the wall, looking over the names of the crew, the ones that stand with him now and all who have gone. He tears the parchment into four pieces and throws them onto the fire.  
There is an intake of breath from the doorway, and Steve looks up to see Bucky standing there. There is nothing he can say, nothing to stave off what is coming, so he opens his arms. For a moment he thinks Bucky will turn away, but he hurries forward, throwing his arms around Steve’s waist and crushing him in a fierce embrace.  
It’s over far too soon. Bucky steps back, brushing his hands across the sleeves of Steve’s coat.  
“Are we ready?” Steve asks him.  
Bucky shakes his head, but takes him by the hand and leads him up to the deck.  
Steve calls the crew to his side, and they watch in silence as the ship approaches.  
The Insight towers over them as it draws alongside the Star & Shield. Twice their length and almost double their height, it’s three decks lined with square windows, in each a cannon positioned.  
Halfway down the side of the ship's massive bulk is a balcony, where its crew pull the ships together with boathooks and boarding pikes. Above, a hundred men gather along the railing armed with flintlock rifles.  
A wooden gantry is brought out and laid out between the two ships, and crewmen tie it into place.  
Steve stands tall, his shoulder back and his head held high, Sam at his right, Bucky at his left, and waits to see what kind of man Lord Pierce truly is.

Two dozen Hydra soldiers armed with rifles file down the gantry in formation, assembling on the deck. Steve holds out his hand, palm down, when his own crew reach for their weapons.  
“Stand down,” he murmurs. At his side, Bucky lets out a bitten-off sound, low and plaintive like a wounded animal, and takes a half step back. The rest of the crew cluster around him, pushing him to the back of the group and out of sight.  
Two men walk down the gantry. One tall and blond, his rugged, aged features almost handsome. He is dressed in a uniform of blue so dark it might as well be black, a three-cornered hat on his head at a rakish angle, hands in his pockets. He swaggers across the boards, relaxed and confident. At his side is a man of similar age, though time has been less kind to him. His clothing is dull grey, and he fidgets, muttering constantly and tugging on the sleeve of his companion.  
“Alexander, this is ridiculous,” he hisses, pawing again at Pierce’s sleeve in the hope of delaying him. “I have tolerated this business long enough! Keeping the men on half-rations, cancelling shore leave? It’s a wonder they haven’t mutinied. Who cares if your pet is here or not, you can’t waste manpower like this! And if Hydra ever-”  
Pierce ignores the ceaseless chatter and climbs down onto the deck, leaving his companion to fluster and demand assistance down from one of the guards.  
Pierce smiles brightly, looking around. “So this is the Star & Shield, hmm?” He walks toward Steve, holding out his hand. “And you must be Captain Rogers. I’ve heard so much about you.”  
“You have?” Steve offers a hand in return, unable to hide his confusion as Pierce takes it with both hands and smiles warmly.  
“Oh yes,” Pierce doesn’t let go, squeezing tightly. “You’ve led me a in a merry dance around the Caribbean. Nearly had you at the Cape, though. Was about ready to chalk you down as perished in the storm.” Pierce tugs Steve forward. “But here you are.”  
Steve twists his hand free of Pierce’s grip. “Here I am.”  
Pierce lets out a short bark of a laugh, and turns to the rest of the crew. “What do we have here, then? A handful of slaves and stowaways?” He tuts softly. “How disappointing.”  
“Yeah, well tell that to the Crossbones,” Luis says loudly.  
Steve hisses at him to be quiet, but Pierce only nods. “I’ll give you that.”  
His companion finally sets both feet on the deck, looking around with a grimace. “Alexander, there’s nothing here of merit.”  
Pierce raises a hand, silencing him. “Captain Rogers, allow me to introduce Commander Stern,” he leans in towards Steve, his tone conspiratorial. “Repulsive, isn’t he? Cowardly, lazy, you see what I have to work with?”  
Stern lets out a shocked noise as Pierce ambles towards him.  
“Lord Pierce…”  
“Yes, yes, I’ll get on with it.” Pierce pulls a hand out of his pocket, gaze still on Stern, and snaps his fingers. “Come along, boy.”  
Bucky flinches, half hidden behind Steve, and Pierce’s eyes turn cold.  
“Don’t test me, boy.” Pierce glares at the crew. “Come quietly and I will let one of them go.”

Bucky pushes through the crowd, shrugging off the hands that reach for him, even Steve’s. He walks slowly to Pierce’s side, eyes down and slightly to his left. Pierce brightens up at his approach, holding out his arms.  
“There he is, my wayward son.” He rests his hands on Bucky’s shoulders. “It’s time to come home now, there is much work to be done.”  
“Bucky!” Wanda shouts out.  
Pierce sighs and shakes his head, looking for all the world like a disappointed parent. He slaps Bucky across the face, hard enough to make his head snap to the side. Bucky doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t fight back, just slowly faces forward again.  
“Must we start all over again?” Pierce tuts reproachfully. “Your name is James. James Barnes.”  
“My name is James Barnes,” Bucky repeats in a dull tone.  
“I am losing patience with you, boy,” Pierce brushes his thumb across Bucky’s cheek. “Behave yourself.”  
“Alexander, we don’t have time for this.” Stern whines.  
“Patience,” Pierce says over his shoulder. “Come along now, we must away.”  
Bucky pulls back slightly. “You said… you said you would let one go?”  
Pierce nods, patting Bucky on the shoulder. “Yes. Yes I did. Do you know which-”  
Bucky turns and points, his finger unwavering, at Steve.  
Pierce looks over and nods, his mouth twisting in amusement. “Of course.”  
He waves to the armed guards, pointing them in Steve’s direction. “Throw him overboard.”  
Bucky closes his eyes and bows his head as a handful of guards rush forward.  
Thor lets out a roar and starts throwing punches at the approaching guards. Luis joins in with a battle cry and hurls himself at a pair of guards, knocking them to the ground.  
Pierce sighs and sends the rest of the men into the fight, and the crew are quickly outnumbered, pinned down while Steve is singled out and dragged across the deck.

Bucky tucks his hand in his pocket, and pulls out his vendetta. The blade flicks open, but there’s no one nearby to see it.   
“I said I would let him go,” Pierce smiles, watching Steve struggle. “I never said I’d let him live.”  
Bucky says nothing as he plunges the blade into Pierce's stomach, and gives it a vicious tug sideways.  
Pierce lets out a startled gasp, reaching down to the gaping slit in his stomach. His intestines slither over his fingers, piling into a heap at his feet.  
Stern lets out a moan, stumbling backwards, and Bucky darts after him, grabbing a handful of his greying hair and pulling his head back.   
“Call them off,” Bucky rasps, pressing the vendetta, wet with Pierce’s blood, to Stern’s throat.  
Stern wheezes, shaking in Bucky's grip as Pierce falls to his knees, blood soaking his shirt.  
“Stand down,” Stern yells in a panic. “Let them go! Stand down.”  
The guards drop Steve at the railing, and he lands heavily on the boards. The rest of the crew are released, one by one. Luis tugs at the collar of his shirt and glowers at the man who had been restraining him. The guards look to one another, then to their commander.  
“Steve?” Bucky calls, a tremor in his voice.  
Steve coughs and drags himself to his feet, wiping a trace of blood from his lip. “I’m here.”  
Bucky nods and presses his blade a little more firmly against Stern’s throat. Pierce twitches and slumps to the deck, and Stern lets out a wail.  
“Commander Stern, was it?” Steve asks politely, limping forward. Stern starts to nod, freezing when Bucky’s knife scrapes his neck. “I’m Captain Rogers. There seems to be a misunderstanding. Bucky, let the man go.”  
Stern makes a confused noise as Bucky pulls his hand from the man’s hair, keeping the blade close to his throat.  
Steve points down to Pierce’s body. “This man ordered the pursuit and capture of my ship, is that correct?” Stern nods. “Looking for someone named Barnes, yes?”  
Stern swallows audibly. “That’s right.”  
“There is no James Barnes on this ship, Commander.” Steve gestures to Bucky. “This is my first mate, Bucky. Pierce made an unfortunate mistake.” Steve holds his hands out, placating.  
Stern looks to Bucky, then to Steve, and then to the slowly spreading pool of blood, soaking into the boards.  
“Yes,” he says slowly. “A mistake.” He wrings his hands. “Such a tragedy. Of course I will have to report-”  
“He fell,” Bucky growls, the fine edge of his knife leaving a trail of Pierce’s blood on Stern’s throat. “There was a storm and he fell overboard.”  
Stern nods frantically. “A storm. He fell. Yes, that’s what happened. Thank God, I mean, God rest his soul.”   
Bucky lowers the knife, and Stern scrambles for the gantry, clambering up and panting for breath.  
“Sir…?” One of the guards calls.  
“Get back on the damn ship,” Stern yells. “We were scheduled to be in Charleston three months ago.” He wipes the sweat off his brow with his sleeve and stumbles up to his ship, not looking back even once.  
One by one the guards follow. A handful linger to check that Pierce is dead. More than one spits before departing.  
Bucky lets his knife fall from his shaking hand, and wraps his arms around Steve’s shoulders. Steve hugs him back, his grip much too tight, but Bucky doesn’t tell him to stop.  
The gantry is withdrawn, and the ship slowly pulls away.

“How the fuck did we get out of that one?” Luis asks, breaking the silence.  
Steve has no idea how to answer. In truth he doesn’t care how, only that they are alive, that Bucky is pressed up against him, his breath warm and sweet against Steve’s ear.  
“Odin has seen fit to spare us,” Thor announces proudly.  
“Nuh-uh,” Luis says. “This is all _Ek Chuaj_ , I’m telling ya. He’s looking out for us hard-working little guys.”  
Steve takes a deep breath, putting his thoughts into order. “Pietro, check out supplies, see how much we still have below decks. The rest of you, I want that mast repaired. Take down the sails and rigging, and get some supports in place. We need to keep the ship going until we can dock somewhere and get her fixed up.”  
The crew mutter in agreement and get to work. They split into groups, working quickly to get repairs underway. Bucky slips out of Steve’s arms and walks back to where Pierce lies on the deck, his blood soaking into the boards.  
Steve follows him, and resists the urge to kick the body.  
“You want me to get rid of him?” Steve asks quietly.  
Bucky shakes his head. “Just wanted to be sure.”  
Pierce stares sightlessly pasts them, his blue eyes clouded over.   
Bucky huffs, shaking himself off. “Get his legs, will ya?”  
He crouches down, hooking his hands under Pierce’s shoulders, waiting for Steve to take the other end. They count to three and lift, carrying the body over to the rails and throwing it overboard. There is a splash, and Alexander Pierce sinks like a stone.

\--------------------

Steve climbs up onto the deck and breathes deeply. The cool breeze refreshing after a long day of stifling heat. They sail in darkness, no lanterns lit along the masts, and only the stars to guide them.  
He walks across the deck, moving with it’s rise and fall as the ship journeys south. Memory and the light of the crescent moon enough to show him the way. He leans against the rail and looks up to the night sky, seeking out his favoured star.  
“You’ll strain something, thinking so hard,” Bucky whispers at his ear.  
Steve jumps, then laughs at his own skittishness as Bucky brushes a hand through his tousled hair.  
“Woke up and you were gone,” Bucky says reproachfully. “What you doing up?”  
Steve wraps an arm around Bucky’s waist and pulls him closer. He is still warm from their bed, soft eyed and rumpled, and Steve’s heart beats only for him.  
The sky to the east, down where it touches the sea, is starting to pale. Above their heads it is still midnight blue and sprinkled with stars.  
“I was looking for the North Star,” Steve murmurs. “And here you are.”  
Bucky smiles, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “ _O Lanodorsko cheran_.”  
Steve loves the sound of his language, and learns more of those sweet words every day. “A fixed point in a changing world, that star is.”  
Bucky tucks a loose strand of hair behind Steve’s ear. “Am I?”  
“You are,” Steve says.   
“And what’s got you up on deck looking at _cheran_ when you could be keeping me warm?”  
Steve links his fingers together around Bucky’s waist. “I was thinking to the future.”  
“The future?” Bucky’s hand traces down the column of Steve’s throat.  
“The world is changing. There are no great pirates sailing the seven seas anymore, no pirate towns.” Steve purses his mouth. “The age of piracy is coming to an end.”  
Bucky smiles, fond and indulgent.  
“As long as there are stars and sailing ships, there will be _folki_ like us.” He curls a finger under Steve’s chin, and gently turns his head until he’s looking east, to the first hints of sunrise.   
There is a ship.   
“Hydra,” Bucky grins. “Spies or mercenaries from the look of that bero.”  
“In a big damn hurry too,” Steve can feel the powder sparking through his veins, feel the beat of his heart like a war drum.  
“Sound the bell,” Steve says as Bucky kisses the corner of his mouth. “Rouse the crew, tell them we’re in pursuit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dinlo/dinderlo - idiot/foolish  
> Korromengro - cheater  
> mitchipen - trouble  
> folki - people


End file.
